


To Cozen Fortune

by medieval_scribe



Category: Robin Hood BBC
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, Religious Themes & References, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally written for the <a href="http://rhbigbang.livejournal.com/12768.html">Robin Hood Big Bang</a> at <a href="http://www.livejournal.com">Livejournal</a>. The always-amazing <a href="http://shinysparks.livejournal.com">shinysparks</a> designed <a href="http://rhbigbang.livejournal.com/24226.html">stunning artwork</a> to accompany the story.</p><p>Thanks are due to <a href="http://applebeing.livejournal.com">applebeing</a> for her excellent beta work.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Onward

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the [Robin Hood Big Bang](http://rhbigbang.livejournal.com/12768.html) at [Livejournal](http://www.livejournal.com). The always-amazing [shinysparks](http://shinysparks.livejournal.com) designed [stunning artwork](http://rhbigbang.livejournal.com/24226.html) to accompany the story.
> 
> Thanks are due to [applebeing](http://applebeing.livejournal.com) for her excellent beta work.

  


  


_A doubtful choice, of these three which to crave,_  
 _A kingdom, or a cottage, or a grave._  
-Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford

  
Chapter 1. Onward

 _Southwest of Locksley  
September 1175_

He stared up in dismay as black smudges of cloud streaked across the sky, threatening rain. Guy chanced a glance at his sister, pale and hungry. He sighed and fished a piece of bread out of his pocket, wiping lint off it before offering it to her.

Isabella ate ravenously, as if she had not seen food in days. That was near enough to the truth and Guy watched her with pity, but also with revulsion. _She's going to make herself sick._

He had bartered his eating knife for a loaf of bread, but there had been no money left for meat or cheese, and two days later, there was hardly any of the bread left either. He had given his sister the last piece thinking she was smaller and needed sustenance more than he did, but already, he regretted it. Sure enough, a few moments later, Isabella retched violently and began to heave the contents of her too-quick meal onto the ground. Guy sighed and leaned over her, holding her hair out of the way until the heaves subsided into sobs and she crumpled against his shoulder.

"There now. It's nothing. You just ate too fast."

She stared at him, but her eyes were too bright and her face was flushed. He frowned and brought a hand to her forehead. It was hot, much hotter than it should have been.

"You…you're burning up. Why didn't you tell me you were ill?"

Isabella's eyes were unfocused now, and he suspected she was going to swoon. He patted her cheeks in panic. "No, no. Stay awake. We have to get you inside somewhere. We have to get you medicine!"

In the end, after she'd walked as far as her fevered body could carry her, after he'd tried his best to bear her the rest of the way, they found only the shelter of a very large oak tree. Its gnarled branches were as good a roof as they'd had in the days since they'd left Locksley. _Since we were banished from Locksley_. Bitterness flooded his mind and provided an odd but welcome warmth. He put an arm around Isabella, shielding her from the cold, and as darkness came, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

His dreams were always the same, of fire and brimstone, of Hell.

\--

Guy startled awake to the sight of a dark shape in the shadows watching him. Panic closed around his heart and crushed his spirit. So I am dead and paying for my sins! He squinted, trying to get a better look, remembering his father's words about always being brave, even in the face of death.

The dark shape resolved itself into the figure of a man in a hood. The man doffed the hood, and the early morning sun glared off his tonsured pate. "You are lost."

"No."

The monk chuckled. "I shall help you find your way nonetheless." The expression on the monk's face changed abruptly as he caught sight of Isabella. "She looks…unwell."

"She is fevered. She needs some medicine, a healer."

The monk nodded and then pointed behind him, where a small cart stood, led by a tired looking donkey. "I can take you as far as the village. Perhaps someone there can help."

Guy hesitated, not sure what to make of the monk or his offer. But his sister was ill, and he had no idea what to do for her, so he relented and nodded his agreement. Together, he and the monk managed to lift the child into the cart and they rode off along the edge of the river.

\--

 _Two days later  
Cotgrave, Nottinghamshire_

He ran towards the fire, towards its welcoming heat. The figures in the fire, wraithlike and yet still easily recognizable, called to him. "Come Guy, come quickly. Save us!" But no matter how quickly he ran, they stayed out of his reach, their plaintive cries receding into the distance while he ran futilely towards them.

A door banged loudly and the dream dissolved away. Guy sat up in bed, frightened by the images his mind threw up, but also relieved that it had only been a dream. He tried to wipe his sweat-soaked brow with his sleeve, but a gentle hand stopped him, and he felt the wetness of clean cloth dab at his forehead. It was the monk.

"Before you ask the inevitable questions, I should tell you that you are at All Saints', in the village of Cotgrave. In the prior's house, to be precise."

"You…you're the prior?"

"Ah, no. I'm an itinerant. I go where I am needed." He handed Guy the cloth so he could finish the job himself. "I am called Tuck, by the way."

Guy watched the monk with narrowed eyes. "Brother Tuck. I'm called—"

"Guy of Gisborne. From Nottingham or thereabouts. Your parents are recently dead and you are running away."

Guy gaped at the monk, panicked. "You…how do you know all this? Who are you? Some sort of…seer? A prophet?"

The monk smirked. "Perhaps I am those things. Does that frighten you?"

Guy could not discern if the monk was serious or merely mocking. "No. You don't scare me."

"Don't I? Well, that's unfortunate." Tuck seemed disappointed by this. "But, as it is, I should tell you the truth is not frightening at all. I only know about what you have been kind enough to share in your sleep."

"And my sister? Is she…?" He let his voice trail off, suddenly afraid for Isabella.

"She is…better. Quite weak from the fever, but no longer its prisoner. She'll be well enough to travel in a few days."

Guy smiled at the monk, genuinely grateful. "Thank you, Brother Tuck. I don't know what would have happened if you didn't find us that day—"

"No. Save your thanks for Almighty God, for it is His work, not mine, that saves."

The monk reached into his pocket and drew something out, pressing it into Guy's palm. It was a piece of metal, struck with a seal that he had never seen before.

"Do you know what that is?"

Guy shook his head, perturbed. "Is it a coin?"

"In a manner of speaking. It will help with your travels." Tuck tapped the seal with a long finger. "That is St. Christopher, and as he helped the Lord ford a river one day, so may he help you in your journey."

Guy held the coin up in the light and studied it. "I thank you for your kindness."

The monk inclined his head politely in response. "Just remember, Guy of Gisborne. God opens doors when all other ways are shut."

\--

 _Ten days later  
Arnesby, Leicestershire_

Guy had taken Tuck's words to heart. They had set out three days ago from Cotgrave, as soon as Isabella was well enough to travel. Wherever they went, he made sure they stopped for the night in a village with a church or a priory. Although the lodgings were never grand and the meals spare, they had both food and shelter, and Guy was eternally grateful for both.

Sometime during their stay at the priory in Cotgrave, he'd made the decision to go to France. There was nothing left for him in England, no lands, no kin to rely on. But his mother had been of a patrician Norman family, and Guy considered he and Isabella might still be welcome there.

But France was still a great distance away. By Guy's calculations, they still had at least a week's travel through the south of England before they came to the sea. But without coin, he had no idea how they would find passage aboard a ship to France. Nervously, he fingered the badge in his pocket and willed St. Christopher to show him the way. Nothing came to him immediately, but he was reassured by the knowledge that a saint was watching out for him. We will cross the sea when we come to it.

Isabella, too, seemed to be in much better spirits. She was still pale and quite thin, but she was smiling now, and seemed content in a way that surprised Guy. He considered she was just a child and probably did not realize what had happened to her parents, or how complicit her brother was in their deaths. This was a blessing in itself and he hoped she would live her days never having to know the ugly truth.

They were at the small church of St. Peter in the village. One of the church walls had been knocked down in a storm and there were villagers everywhere, carting away stone and trying to rebuild it. Guy admired their industry and their commitment. But although he wanted to help, in exchange for the food and shelter the church was giving them, he felt no real desire to be part of it all. He felt somehow separate from those around him, even Isabella, and he could not quite understand why. He suspected it was because he had not been properly trained for life as anything but a knight and lord in the king's service. His thoughts began to meander, taking him far afield, into a great battle with clashing swords and banners flying in the wind…

A tug at his sleeve brought him back to the church. It was Isabella.

"What is it?" he hissed, a little annoyed at the interruption.

She startled but recovered almost immediately, fixing him with an even stare. "I just wanted you to know. It wasn't your fault."

He goggled. These were the first words she had spoken in weeks. "What?"

She dropped her voice to a whisper, as if she were conspiring with him. "The fire. It was an accident. I know it."

"Oh, Isabella." He felt the full force of his guilt in that moment, but even as it threatened to crush him, he swore to himself that he would protect her from every fire, flood and calamity she ever faced. "I'm so sorry. I meant to save them, I really did—"

"Shh, shh." She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "We'll be alright. As long as we stay together."

Guy said nothing, awed by her wisdom and shamed by her certainty. He waited quietly until she let him go, a crooked smile still on her pale face.

"Now, tell me. Where are we going? To France?"

Guy chuckled in spite of himself. "Yes. Do you remember?" He took Isabella's hand. "Years ago, when Father first left for the Holy Land, and Mother was very ill? She told us that if anything were to happen, we should go to France."

Isabella nodded emphatically, but the look in her eye told Guy she did not remember. "We're going to a place called Caën, to St. Stephen's. To find our uncle, Martin of Lisieux."

"How will you know where to find him?"

"That should be easy enough. He's the abbot."

\--


	2. Christian Soldier

Chapter 2. Christian Soldier

 _Caën, Normandy  
Early October, 1175_

The twin spires of St. Stephen's rose out of the ground unexpectedly, as Guy and Isabella arrived in Caen, cresting one of the many hills they had climbed since arriving in France more than a week before.

Isabella huffed as she struggled to catch up. "Are we there now?"

"Almost." Guy watched his sister with a mixture of concern and amusement. It had been a difficult journey, beginning with their inability to find passage on a boat to take them to France. Guy had tried many things, from a failed attempt to sneak onto a merchant vessel to an offer to be the captain's servant, but nothing had worked. In the end, and much to Guy's surprise, it was Isabella who had a plan. She'd spied a well-dressed matronly woman, sobbed out an entire story of how the woman looked exactly like their recently dead mother, and begged to be allowed to travel with her. The woman had been so taken with Isabella that she'd not only paid their passage across the sea, but even given them food for their journey when they made landfall.

Guy had been a little frightened at the ease with which Isabella had manipulated the other woman, but she had shrugged it off. He began to suspect she'd always been like this, that she'd never been an innocent, and he wondered how much she knew of the things that had happened in Locksley. He thought to probe her about these things, but shrunk back, keenly aware he was not prepared for answers that reflected worldliness well past Isabella's ten years. _Someday, when she is old enough, I will speak to her properly of all these things_.

For the moment, however, Guy had more pressing things on his mind. The gates of St. Stephen's loomed ahead, the hulking mass of the great abbey behind it. Until a few moments before, he'd been completely certain of his plans: they would approach the abbot, who would welcome them with open arms, and everything would simply take care of itself. But now that they were actually at the abbey, at the doorstep of their future, Guy wavered. What if the abbot was not there? What if he did not believe Guy's story? What were he and Isabella going to do for the rest of their lives?

Isabella must have sensed his discomfort. She slipped her hand into his and gave him a worried look. That was enough to spur Guy to action. He was not doing this just for himself, and if he did not at least try to speak to the abbot, his sister would know naught but misery in her life.

He pushed at the door and was surprised to find it locked. The church in Locksley had always been open. He guessed this church was wealthier, and there were probably things the priests would want to safeguard from the common folk. He considered this a wise practice, and it reassured him the church was a serious and important place, the sort of place where a future could be made.

He lifted up the brass knocker, letting it fall back on the wood with an ominous thunk. They waited, Isabella's boots scraping on the flagstone as she shuffled her feet. As the minutes passed and there was no answer, Guy became irritated with the sound she was making and glared at her. He was about to launch into a proper scolding, when the door opened with a creaking groan.

A cowled monk, his face lit only by a guttering candle, stared down at Guy and Isabella.

Guy stepped away from the door, startled by the monk. In the darkness, the monk's face—wizened and partly in the shadows—reminded Guy of every monster in every nightmare he had ever had, and the words that had been on his tongue were chased away by his fear.

He swallowed hard, cleared his throat and tried again, but no words came.

The monk scowled at them. "What do you want?"

"Um, we're—er, can we come in?"

"Church is closed at night, by the abbot's orders. Come back in the morning."

"But—"

The monk narrowed his eyes. "Unless you're claiming sanctuary, of course. Then I have to let you in."

Guy shook his head. "No, we're—"

The monk sighed. "Let me repeat myself. If you ask for sanctuary, I have to let you in."

Guy frowned, reluctant to utter a falsehood so close to God. But Isabella had no such compunction. She stepped in front of Guy and clasped her hands together.

"Yes, we claim sanctuary. We are tired and orphaned and very far from home. We have naught left in the world but God."

The monk seemed unmoved, but he nodded curtly in their direction and waved them into the church and down the nave into the cloisters. The abbey courtyard was dark, and Guy could spy only a sliver of moonlight through the walls and columns that lined the cloisters. The cloisters were lit by torches, but the light receded as they walked across the courtyard, and Guy could not fight off the feeling he was being led to his punishment.

It turned out to be only supper, as the sullen monk led them to the abbey kitchens. The smell of fresh bread wafted down the stone-lined path, and Guy's mouth watered predictably as they made their way into the building.

The monk showed the siblings to a narrow wooden bench along the wall, and another monk, this one rather jolly and welcoming, brought them trenchers and potage. Isabella gave the monk a crooked smile and began to eat. Guy held on to the food for a moment, feeling dishonest but also desperately hungry.

"I'm the kitchener," the jolly monk said. "Brother Rupert." He clucked his tongue. "You look hungry. And tired. Traveling from far?"

Guy hesitated, but decided he would not compound all his sins by lying to a priest. "England."

"Ah. And you've come here for sanctuary?"

At this, Guy cast a glance at the other monk, who was still glaring at them. "Er, yes. We were…orphaned. We had no place to go."

The sullen monk scoffed. "Yes. 'Naught left in the world but God', I believe it was."

Guy felt a sudden rush of irritation at the monk, his attitude, his presumption, even his voice. "Actually, that's not quite true. We're here to see Martin of Lisieux."

Brother Rupert raised an eyebrow in surprise, but the sullen monk smirked. "Oh? Around here, we refer to him as the Lord Abbot, and we do not take his name so plainly."

Guy was taken aback and cursed himself for the impertinence. But he schooled himself to calm and put on his most indifferent expression. "You will excuse me the familiarity, but I'm…his kinsman."

The expression on the sullen monk's face changed abruptly as he absorbed this new information. Brother Rupert took the opportunity to pull his fellow monk aside. As they walked outside to talk, Isabella winked conspiratorially at her brother and leaned her head against the wall, eavesdropping.

Guy was shocked and tried to stop her, but after a moment, he decided it was better to be impolite and aware than well-mannered and ignorant. He sat down next to her and craned his neck to hear better.

The two monks spoke in low whispers, and Guy could only hear snatches of their conversation.

"…pair of urchins!"

"Where have you seen…well-spoken?"

"But the abbot would…

"Let's speak to him about…"

Guy sighed, guessing he'd probably said too much and these two monks were not likely to take him to the abbot, except as some sort of prisoner or sinner. He leaned his head against the wall, feeling defeated. What would they do now? Where would they go? Dark thoughts came to him, and he tried in vain to dispel them.

But just as despair was about to take over, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Brother Rupert, who gave him a friendly smile.

"It is much too late to see the Lord Abbot today, you understand."

Guy nodded, grateful for the interruption, although he noted with dismay that Rupert had promised nothing.

The monk handed him a pair of ragged blankets. "The two of you can stay here, in the kitchens. I'll have someone bring you a warming stone in a while."

As he turned to leave, Guy called out to him. "And tomorrow? Can we see the abbot tomorrow?"

"I think it's best to leave tomorrow for tomorrow. I wish you a good night."

\--

The kitchen fires had long since gone out, and Guy pulled the threadbare blanket closer around himself, trying to find a comfortable spot on the cold stone floor. In the distance, he could hear the plaintive chanting of the monks at matins, reminding him it was almost morning. He leaned over and nudged Isabella awake. It was best if they woke early in the day. If the abbot would not see them, or if he could not help them, they would need to get back on the road early, especially since Guy had no idea where they would go from here.

Isabella rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and glared at him. "It's too early."

Guy shrugged. "It's too cold to sleep. And we'll need to wash and be ready."

She shook her head. "They won't let us see him. I can tell."

Guy did not disagree with her, but he held out hope she was wrong, even if she was turning out to be wiser than he'd expected. He took the St. Christopher medallion out of his pocket and turned it over in his hands a few times. "Maybe we'll be lucky this once."

"What will you tell him?" Isabella's voice was soft, but the expression on her face was frank and honest, and Guy knew he owed her a real answer, not just empty reassurance.

"The truth. I'll tell him the truth." _Or some version of it that makes sense_. The truth, at least in this case, was far less believable than most lies.

Isabella nodded, although she seemed doubtful. Guy watched as she straightened her dress and ran a hand through her disheveled hair, and for the first time, he noticed that she was a rather pretty girl, with wide eyes and pale skin. That knowledge began to worry him, a sharp reminder the stakes were much higher for her, a girl without the protection of wealth or title.

He started to think of what to say to the abbot that would make the best case, but his efforts were interrupted by a loud commotion near the doors. Two novices were shoving each other and yelling, and before he could think better of it, Guy was in the middle, separating the two men as they continued to berate each other.

He shoved one novice away and pinned the other against the wall. "What is wrong with you?"

"Get off me!" The novice pushed himself away from Guy and glared. "He stole my bread. It's all I'm allowed to eat, and he stole it!"

The other novice hissed in protest. "I saw you stuffing your face before. I just don’t want you to break your fast and end up in trouble with the novice master. Again!"

Guy was appalled. "You're going to be monks soon. You can't fight over bread!"

The two novices turned on him. "Oh? And who are you? The new rules master then?" They sneered at Guy in a way that made his blood boil. "Where's your habit, St. Benedict?"

Guy cast about for a clever response, but nothing came to him. Behind him, Isabella cleared her throat pitifully, and he was acutely aware of the shame of being shown up in front of her, and by two unarmed novices at that.

"You look like something they dragged in off the street. Some poor orphan too weak even to beg for his bread at church."

This new insult cut too close for Guy, and he lashed out at them, pulling himself to his full height and nearly punching one of the novices before he was dragged back by his collar.

Brother Rupert set him back on his feet and turned his attention to the two novices. "You two should be ashamed. You're to be men of God soon. You should be preaching peace!" The two novices dropped their heads and shuffled their feet, knowing better than to talk back.

"Off with you, both of you. Naught but water till you learn how to keep your tongues. Out!" He shooed the novices out the door and turned his attention to Guy, clucking his tongue.

"I'm sorry," Guy mumbled, cutting off the expected scolding. "I don't know what came over me."

The monk narrowed his eyes at Guy and regarded him intently for a few minutes before shrugging and patting him gently on the shoulder. "I saw what happened. We'll just say you were grievously provoked, shall we? Meanwhile, you're probably hungry. Let's get you some food before you meet the Lord Abbot."

"So we will get to see him then?"

Brother Rupert chuckled. "Oh, yes. After news of you nearly hitting a novice reaches him, I'm certain he'll want to see you!"

\--

Guy sat stiffly on the wooden chair, trying not to shuffle his feet or appear nervous. Next to him, Isabella was very still, hands clasped neatly together. But her knuckles were white with the effort, and tension filled the room, hot and thick.

They were in the refectory, where they had been invited to dine with the abbot. At first, Guy had assumed this would be a private meal, but once they'd arrived, it became clear the abbot used meals as a way to meet with important people, and this day was no different. In the room with them were a few wealthy merchants, an older knight and an assortment of well-dressed ladies and gentleman. Guy felt very small and dirty in their presence, and more than once, he wished he could simply excuse himself and run away.

But Brother Rupert had made it clear the abbot rarely met with anyone outside the order and that he was doing them a great honor by giving them an audience, and Guy had not been able to refuse. He had no idea how the monk had managed it, but he had found Guy a clean tunic to wear, and Isabella's threadbare dress had been replaced by a woolen one, plain but sturdy, and she'd been admonished to cover her head in the abbot's presence. Guy thought she looked a bit like a nun, and began to wonder if that was intentional, and whether that would be her future. _It might even be mine_. The thought was a sobering one, for Guy had no desire to spend his life in cloistered contemplation. But he was keenly aware they had few choices, and he would have to give in to whatever demands were made by the abbot.

The meal eventually wound down, and conversation around Guy dulled to a gentle buzz, as the abbot's guests began to disperse. The man himself still held court, chatting easily with everyone. Guy noted that unlike most well-born men of the Church, he did not wear silk vestments nor did he partake of any of the rich food his guests had been offered. In fact, he was dressed exactly as all the other monks of his order and might have been mistaken for one outside of the abbey.

Guy allowed his mind to wander over the day's events and wondered at how much trouble the morning's fracas with the novices would turn out to be. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he neither heard the abbot's voice as the man approached, nor noticed Isabella's nudging elbow at his ribs.

It was the sound of a chair being dragged across the stone floor that finally caught his attention, and when Guy looked up, it was into the bright blue eyes of Martin of Lisieux.

Guy rushed to his feet, pulling Isabella up with him. He bowed his head and spoke as politely as he had been trained to do. "My lord abbot. Thank you for your hospitality."

The abbot sat down and regarded Guy through steepled fingers. "Brother Rupert tells me you were part of a…disturbance, shall we say?"

Guy said nothing, choosing to nod and not get himself into further trouble.

The abbot chuckled. "He also tells me you've wanted to see me. May I ask why?"

Guy exchanged a quick glance with Isabella and shuffled his feet, making sure he had all the right words before he speak. "We have traveled from very far, my lord. From England, in fact. Just to find you. Er, to speak to you."

"And to what do I owe this honor?" Guy chanced looking straight at the abbot, and was surprised to find the abbot looked neither angry nor pleased, just amused. Guy took a deep breath and stepped forward.

"I am Guy, the son of Ghislaine, and this is my sister, Isabella. We are your kin."

The expression on Martin's face changed abruptly. "Ghislaine…I have not seen her in years. Not since I was but a young lad."

He frowned. "What has become of her? Of Roger?"

Guy could not meet the abbot's eyes. "She is gone. They both are. There was a fire, and…" The words caught in his throat, choking him. He could not go on, so he settled for twisting his hands together instead.

The abbot seemed equally distraught, and for a few moments, there was nothing but silence in the room. When the abbot spoke again, his voice was subdued. "I see why you are here now." He stood up and gave both Guy and Isabella a studious examination.

He patted Isabella gently on the head. "You have the look of your mother, you know." Abruptly, he embraced the little girl and then held his arms out for Guy as well. Unsure of himself but afraid to disobey, Guy folded himself dutifully into Martin's arms. To his surprise, the embrace was warm, a gesture of welcome, and Guy felt tears pricking at the corner of his eyes at this unexpected show of affection.

He pulled out of the abbot's arms and scrubbed his eyes with a sleeve, hoping nobody had seen the tears. "I…I thank you, my lord."

Martin stared at Guy through narrowed eyes. At length, he shook his head. "Think nothing of it. I'm your uncle, and you must learn to trust me."

Guy felt relief wash over him, making him light-headed and dissolving away his fear. _I have come home._

\--


	3. Marching

Chapter 3. Marching

 _Late November 1175  
Abbaye aux Hommes, Caën, Normandy_

Abbot Martin studied his ward with a keen eye. The boy was tall and had he been better fed over the past few years, he would have been strong as well. He had the look of his mother, which pleased Martin, but also the temperament of his father, which did not.

But despite his training, he could discern little else about the lad. His melancholy—and the reasons for it—were clear enough, but of his ambitions and desires, he knew nothing. The girl had been easier to understand. She said little, but there was a restlessness about her, a storm behind her eyes that frightened Martin a little. But it also reassured him. He was certain he knew how to handle her, or at least keep her in check.

Guy and his sister had been at the abbey more than a month, and in that time, they had conducted themselves with decorum and discipline, as Martin had expected of them. But they had surprised him by making no demands on him, as others exploiting the bonds of kinship might have attempted. Indeed, they never sought him out on their own, and it was left to Martin to speak to them once a week when he dined in the chapter house with the other monks.

But two days ago, much to his surprise, he'd received word from Rupert Kitchener that Guy wished to speak to him in private, and so Guy now sat before him, looking nervous but very determined.

"So. To what do I owe the honor, Guy?"

The boy cleared his throat and began awkwardly. "My lord abbot. Er, Uncle." He shifted in his seat and collected himself before meeting Martin's eyes evenly. "I would like to discuss my future with you. That is, what is to become of me here."

Martin brought a hand to his chin in a thoughtful gesture, but really just to hide his amusement. "What would you like to become?"

Guy looked surprised and then shook his head and fell into silence. Martin sighed.

"What I mean is, I cannot answer your question until you've answered a few of mine."

"Yes, of course. Ask me anything."

Martin rose out of his chair and went round the front of his desk, and watched in growing amusement as Guy scrambled out of his chair in a show of respect.

"Tell me, have you any proper education?"

"Yes, some." Martin watched Guy fiddle with his tunic a bit, clearly nervous. "I began training as a knight's squire a few years ago."

"But you did not continue? Because of your parents' death?"

Guy shook his head. "No, before that. It stopped when my father went to the Holy Land. To attend to the king's affairs," he emended hastily.

"So you have some skills with a sword and little else then?" Martin tried to keep the mockery out of his voice, but he had little use for the drunken louts who passed for squires and knights these days.

Guy colored. "I am lettered, of course. But I never got the sort of learning a knight should have." He gave Martin a frank look. "And I'd like to now, with your help."

Martin joined his hand under the sleeves of his habit and pondered the matter before answering. "I think it's commendable that you wish to learn. But there is not enough room here for everyone."

"Unless you want to be a monk."

Guy gaped at him, and then stammered. "I…I have—"

Martin allowed himself a chuckle, though he allowed it to dissolve into a cough that hid his amusement from the lad. "There is a long period of postulancy, of course. You'd have to stay here and learn for at least two years before you could become a novice." He let his voice trail off, allowing Guy to figure out the rest on his own.

It took several minutes before there was any response, but eventually, Guy nodded at his uncle. "Yes, yes. I think I will become a postulant." Guy smiled shyly. "That is, if it is acceptable to you."

Martin congratulated himself for putting the idea in the boy's head. If nothing else, two years as a postulant would convince Guy he did not want to take holy vows. In the meantime, he would receive a proper education at no cost to either himself or Martin.

"Welcome to the Abbey of St. Stephen's, Guy of Gisborne."

\--

Guy looked up over the rim of his mug of ale and gave Brother Rupert a look of shock. "What? Why?"

Rupert shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. "I just don't think it's a good idea for your sister to stay here."

"But she's done nothing wrong." Guy set the mug down and it clattered noisily before it toppled over, spilling ale onto the stone floor.

Rupert clucked his tongue, and started fussing about, trying to mop up the ale. "That has nothing to do with it. She's a girl, and it's not proper."

Guy wrinkled his eyebrows in concentration, trying hard not to think of why Brother Rupert thought it was improper. "She's only ten. Just a little girl."

Rupert stilled, and gave Guy a long, hard look. "That's true. But she won't be ten forever. If you understand what I mean."

Guy dropped his eyes. He was well aware that Isabella attracted unwanted attention, even at such a young age, if only because she was the only girl at the abbey. But still, it was an abbey, after all, and monks were bound by their oath of chastity. What place could be safer for a girl than an abbey?

"If she can't stay here, where will she go? She has nobody in the world but me." Guy gave Brother Rupert a determined glare. "You cannot just cast her out. I will not abandon her to the world!"

Brother Rupert held up a hand in conciliation. "Nobody is speaking of such things. She is not abandoned. The abbot has…other plans for her."

Guy narrowed his eyes at Rupert. "What sort of plans?"

Rupert blanched and set about cleaning up the ale spill. "She's to be sent to the women's abbey. In two days time."

Guy gave Rupert a withering look before he flew out the door in the direction of the abbot's quarters.

As he raced up the stairs, fueled as much by his anger as by his legs, Guy knew he had no business confronting the abbot. But his sister was the only family he had, and if she was going to be taken from him, there would have to be good reason. He was entitled to an explanation, if nothing else.

He burst into the abbot's private quarters, pushing the heavy wooden door with all his might. The abbot, reading by candlelight, startled and crossed himself, before recognizing Guy.

"What is the meaning of this?" His uncle's voice boomed in the hollow room, and Guy withered, the rush of anger fading quickly.

"I…I heard you're sending Isabella away. Why?"

The abbot laughed. "If you do not know why I must send her away, then you are more of a fool than I first thought!"

Guy pulled himself up, his anger and indignation giving him courage. "She is my sister. You cannot decide her fate without me."

"Is that so?" The abbot allowed his derision to show on his face, and Guy shivered involuntarily. "Tell me, what am I?"

"You?" Guy stammered. "You're the abbot. Our uncle."

"I am your guardian. It is my duty to protect you and your sister, and therefore, it is my right to make decisions for you."

"Did you even ask her? Maybe she doesn't want to be a nun. She's only ten. You can't expect her to know what she—"

Guy stopped short when he felt the abbot's hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but there was a power to the gesture he had not expected, and he fell silent in anticipation.

"I will say this only once, so hear me out." Martin's voice was only a whisper, but to Guy, it seemed as if he were being yelled at, and he cowered a little as he listened. "I am a difficult man, but not a cruel one. Whatever I do, to you or to Isabella, it is for your own good.

"Though you may not think it now, you will realize it eventually. I ask only that you respect my judgment. Always, and in all things."

The abbot released him, and Guy resisted the urge to rub at the spot in his shoulder that now throbbed with pain.

"Do you understand, Guy?"

Guy nodded, knowing no answer would be appropriate.

The abbot's expression softened. "The women's abbey is not like this place, lad. There are many women there who have not taken vows, postulants, even just common folk. An abbey is a place of safety for many women who find themselves alone in the world. Isabella will not be a nun, unless she wants to be."

"Will I be able to see her?"

"That is not up to me. If the abbess there allows it, then I imagine, yes, you will be able to see her."

Guy nodded and began to leave the room, disturbed and defeated. "Does she know?"

The abbot nodded. "Yes. I told her yesterday. She took the news rather better than you did."

\--

"Will you be alright?" Guy watched as Isabella stuffed her meager belongings—an old woolen dress and a ragdoll made by one of the monks—into a pack for her journey to the women's abbey.

Isabella nodded, her eyes clear, but her brow wrinkled. "Do you think it will be cold there? In the other abbey?" She shuffled her feet. "I get to sleep in the kitchen here, and it's nice and warm and—"

Guy stopped her and pulled her into a tight embrace. "It will be fine. You'll have your own room, I think. They'll take good care of you."

Isabella nodded. "That's what Uncle said too." She gave Guy a bright smile. "You know, I think it might be good for me to go. It will be a sort of adventure, won't it?"

"Yes." _If you want it to be._

She squeezed his hand. "Don't worry so much. I'm a big girl now. You don't have to look after me all the time.

"Besides, Uncle says they'll let me see you whenever I want."

Guy gave her a wan smile in response, not wanting to disappoint her with the truth.

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Goodbye, dear brother."

"Goodbye, sister. May God be with you."

She laughed and hoisted her tiny bundle onto her shoulder. "Always."

\--


	4. Cross of Jesus

Chapter 4. Cross of Jesus

 _Early April 1176_

"No, no, Lambert," Guy laughed, "you have to keep your feet moving."

They were sparring in the meadow behind the abbey, with wooden sticks instead of blades, and well out of sight of the other postulants and novices.

After parrying a particularly vicious stab from Guy, Lambert dropped his weapon and laughed. "Wouldn't it be easier to just duck and run away?"

"No!" Guy tried not to look too appalled. "That would be…well, cowardly."

Lambert shrugged. "Better cowardly and alive than foolishly brave and dead, I say."

Guy nodded and dropped his blade, allowing that Lambert was right, as he was about most other things. He clapped his friend gently on the shoulder.

"Let's head back. Before we get caught and put in isolation." Guy laughed and added with mock seriousness, "for engaging in acts of violence not befitting men of the cloth."

As they made their way back to the postulants' quarters, Guy caught the stares of some of the abbey novices. He knew they wondered at the friendship between the patrician nephew of the abbot and the son of a lowly town merchant. They had it all wrong, of course. In truth, Lambert was the youngest son of the town mercer, who had too many children, and gave one of them up to the church. Guy, for all his kinship with the abbot, was a penniless orphan entirely dependent on the kindness of others. The irony of their stations was not lost on either of them, and had been the basis of an instant bond.

More than that, Guy suspected that he and Lambert had become friends because they were the most alike of all the new postulants at the abbey. For one, they were both far removed from the world they'd been raised in and were still adjusting to the pace and rules of their new lives. For another, neither of them seemed particularly devoted to the word of God. The Scriptures that Guy was forced to read and understand left him awed rather than inspired, and he felt increasingly distant from God, more than he'd ever been before he'd come to the abbey.

Lambert, on the other hand, felt nothing of the sort. He simply rejected what he could not explain. To him, God was reason, and if there was no reason to be found in a text or a situation, there was no God either. It was not a position Guy understood, but he conceded it was simply one of Lambert's quirks, one that was easily balanced by his otherwise friendly disposition, and his clever way of solving problems, in lessons and outside of them.

They came to the watering trough outside the building where they ate and slept, just in time to see other postulants and novices jostling their way indoors for the evening meal. Guy was halfway through the door when he was yanked backwards by the collar of his tunic.

"Not you," whispered a monk in his ear. "You're dining with the abbot tonight."

Guy shoved away the monk and rubbed at his neck. "What? Why?"

The monk smirked at him and mock-bowed in his direction. "I don't rightly know. We don’t ask why; we just do what we're told. As you should."

Guy was tempted to tell the monk off, but mindful of the rules of the abbey, and of all the eyes on him, he nodded curtly and made his way to the abbot's rooms.

\--

Guy stared down at the bowl of potage and the hunk of bread in front of him, trying to hide his disbelief.

He heard a whisper of laughter and raised his head to find the abbot staring at him.

"What's the matter, Guy? Is there something wrong with the food?"

"No!" Guy tried to cover up his disappointment. "I just thought…"

"It's a lean day. I eat as the others do."

Guy nodded. "I suppose that's fair. It's just…you're the abbot, the lord of this place. It seems—"

Martin cut him off. "We are all equals at the abbey." He ate his meager meal with relish, as if to prove the point. "And as the Rule commands, 'let not any man presume or call anything his own.'"

Guy ducked his head, feeling as if he'd been scolded. He ate the rest of his meal in silence, wondering why he'd been called in to see the abbot in the first place. When he finished his potage, he waited quietly, but when Martin said nothing, he cleared his throat and stood, pulling his chair quietly away from the table.

"If you'll excuse, my lord."

Martin motioned him back into the chair. "No, please. Stay a while longer. I wish to speak to you." He fixed Guy with his eyes, studying him. "You know, you remind me a little of myself. When I was your age.

"You see, I wasn't sure I wanted to be a monk either."

Guy looked up, surprised. "Really? I mean, I'm surprised that you…I mean," he hedged nervously.

"Yes." Martin's voice trailed off, and his expression became distant. He did not speak for a long time, but when he did, his voice was low and quiet, almost wistful.

"Tell me, what do you know of your mother? Of her family?"

Guy shook his head. "I'm sorry to say I know very little, almost nothing. She spoke very little of herself." Guy felt a sudden heaviness in his chest at the thought of his mother—kind, brave, beautiful—and as he spoke, his voice broke. "And I never thought to ask her either."

Martin nodded. "You see, my mother died when I was only a babe. It was my sister who brought me up, though she was barely more than a girl herself.

"She was always very kind to me, making sure I had enough food to eat, that I always had the warmest shirts and the best blankets."

Guy shuffled his feet, curious about his mother, but uncomfortable at the abbot's sudden recollection, and unsure of what to say.

"But of course, the time came for Ghislaine to be married, and though she was happy about her new life, I think she was sad to leave me. Worried about the scrapes I'd get into that she wouldn't be able to save me from." Martin laughed, and for the first time, Guy could see the man he was before, what he might have been had he not given his life to God.

When he continued, however, there was an unexpected note of bitterness in his voice, and Guy stepped back a pace, surprised.

"She did not leave me alone, of course, for our father still lived. He was..." Martin shrugged and sighed. "He was a noble man, but not a particularly good one. He drank, and he gambled, and it was not long before he had naught left to pay his debts, or care for his people.

"Then one day, he fell off his horse in a drunken fit, and the beast kicked him in the head. It was a fitting end for him, I think." Martin turned at the sharp intake of breath from Guy, and to Guy's surprise, he did not seem particularly grieved.

"I could not pay the taxes my father owed, and the baron who took his land turned me out and left me to fend for myself." Martin laughed in a bitter and mirthless way. "I was all alone in the world, cold, hungry." Martin shivered, as if he could feel the misery he was remembering. "Every night, before I slept, I wished I would not awake again. And every new morning I faced, I woke up cursing God for abandoning me.

"But God is ever merciful, so instead of smiting me for my blasphemy, He saved me." Martin waved his hands expansively. "The Church—this church—fed me, clothed me, taught me. And I am grateful."

He gave Guy a sharp look. "As you should be."

Guy nodded, finally having understood the day's lesson. He'd never look at another plate of food askance again. "I am. Grateful, that is."

"I know you are. I do not yet know if you will choose to take the vows when the time comes, but I want you to know that this path is always open to you." He narrowed his eyes at Guy. "And know that it is a path of sacrifice, but also one of influence. Of power, if you so wish it."

Guy met Martin's eyes, hoping he appeared confident rather than impertinent. "I understand, my lord. Thank you for giving me a chance to serve." _Whether I serve you or God, only time will tell._

Martin nodded in approval and beckoned Guy closer. "Come, tell me of your lessons and other things. So I may know how you fare."

The next hour passed pleasantly enough, Guy recounting his experiences in the abbey, his appreciation for Latin and his friendship with Lambert. The abbot interjected every now and then, adding an anecdote or disapproving of something Guy said. But mostly, he listened and Guy was happy for the audience.

Eventually, the interview wound to a close, and Guy, sensing the abbot was about to dismiss him, cleared his throat and spoke. "My lord, if I may ask…how is Isabella?"

The abbot raised an eyebrow at him. "She's well. The abbess tells me that Isabella is an obedient and pliant young ward." The abbot smiled, as if even he found this description difficult to believe. Well, you shall see for yourself soon, I'm sure."

"My lord?"

"Ah, did I not tell you? The abbess will be traveling here for the Feast of St. Agnes. I've asked her to bring Isabella with her.

\--

Isabella stood stock-still, trying to ignore the itch in her fingers from the palm fronds she was holding. They were at St. Stephen's and she was among a dozen young girls chosen to honor St. Agnes on her feast day. The abbot's voice rose high above the sounds of the congregation and the bleating of the lambs in the aisles, and as she watched him, Isabella felt her spirit soar high above the church, escaping the drear of her miserable little life.

But even as she felt herself being carried away, she forced her mind back down to reality. It was not that her life at the convent was so terrible, after all, and to want to escape it would be ungrateful. Things at the abbey were exactly as Uncle Martin and Guy had said—she had clothes to wear, food to eat and a warm place to sleep at night. So what if the dresses were ugly and the food plain? The room she'd been given was perfect. It was small, but a fire burned warm in the hearth every night, and the bed she had was the most comfortable she'd ever slept on. More importantly, it was a safe place. Nobody ever came to the abbey uninvited and those who did were subject to such scrutiny that they did not come often.

 _That's the problem, isn't it? Nobody ever comes, and nobody ever leaves._ In the end, for all its comforts and safety, the abbey was little more than a prison. There were others there like Isabella, women who had not taken vows but had come to the abbey for safety. For them, the place was a refuge, an escape from the terrible things outside its walls. But Isabella had seen so little of the world, and she wondered if life inside the abbey was not crueler than the life outside might have been. Not a day went by that she did not contemplate simply running out of the gates and being free.

But she did not, for she was determined to do nothing that would cast a poor light on Guy. He had sworn to protect her, and in turn, she had sworn, if only to herself, that she would never be a burden to him. She would be obedient, she would be pious, and she would make him proud. She was a Gisborne, after all.

\--

Lambert shuffled his feet and sighed. He hated feasts, whether it was the endless liturgies that accompanied them, or the cloying merriment that followed. The annoyance of this day's gathering was alleviated somewhat by the excellent meal that the abbey had provided, and by the company of Guy, and his sister, Isabella.

He'd been taken aback when Guy had first introduced them, not by the knowledge that Guy had a sibling—most people did, after all—but by the fact that she was really nothing like her brother at all.

She was just a girl, the sort of creature Lambert might not have noticed if he'd seen her in the town marketplace. She was pretty enough, but too young to be fully aware of it. She was also very quiet, and that would have been enough for Lambert to dismiss her out of hand. He had little use for people, and even less for those who had nothing to say for themselves.

But she had an extraordinary pair of eyes, cool and watchful, and the alarming ability to see more than what was revealed to others. She made Lambert nervous, so after the initial introduction, he had kept a wise distance from her, busying himself with a thin volume he'd found in the abbey library, even as others—postulants, novices and even townspeople—feasted and celebrated around him.

A tug at his elbow caught Lambert's attention. He hissed in annoyance and looked over the edge of his book to find Isabella staring at him. He cast about for Guy, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you not want to play?"

"Er, what?"

She held out a hunk of bread. "It's a game. It's seed bread. You take a bite, and however many seeds you get, that is how many years it will be before you marry."

He frowned at her. "I'm a postulant. I'll be a monk one day, so—"

She laughed. "But you're not one yet. And it's only a game."

He allowed she had a point, and more than that, she was making a friendly gesture and he was too polite to refuse her. "Fine. I'll play. But only if you do."

"I already have." She pressed a piece of bread into his hands. "Here, have mine."

He raised an eyebrow at her, and after some hesitation, he took a bite, and then handed the rest back to her with a triumphant flourish. "See? No seeds."

She huffed in mock annoyance. "I suppose you'll be a monk after all, then."

"How many did you get?"

She raised two fingers. "Though I don't think it's really likely I'll be married so soon."

Lambert laughed. "You know it's only an old wives' tale, right? The number of seeds in the bread can predict nothing. Except perhaps how much meal the baker used."

Isabella frowned at him. "Yes, but that takes all the fun out of it, doesn't it?"

Lambert shrugged, and deciding he'd had enough of the conversation, turned his attention back to the book. But he soon discovered a quality Isabella had in common with her brother. They were both terribly persistent.

She tugged at his sleeve again, and this time, he removed her hand gently. He put on his most stern expression. "What do you want?"

If he had hoped to startle her, he had failed utterly. She smiled brightly and pointed at the book. "What are you reading?"

"It's a—" He stopped short, wondering whether there was any point in explaining. "Can you read?"

Isabella looked wounded. "Of course I can read." She looked away for a moment before meeting his eyes evenly. "I don't especially like it though."

Lambert gaped at her. "You don't like to read?"

"No. The sisters, they make us read Scripture. But it's all in Latin, and there are parts I like, but most of it is just the same, over and over."

Lambert nodded. Though the Latin of the Church's liturgy was beautiful, and he could appreciate the sound and rhythm of the daily prayers, a lot of it was rote repetition. "Don't they give you anything else to read?"

Isabella shook her head, and Lambert felt a sharp pang in his chest, a sudden burst of unexpected sympathy.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I think I would hate this place—much more than I do now—if I did not have books.

"With a book, you can go to places you've never seen before, will never see. You can speak to people from the past—great people, ordinary people, anyone you want."

Isabella gasped in surprise, almost as if he'd revealed some great secret. But at length, she smiled and nodded, dropping her voice to a whisper, as if she were conspiring with him. "So, the books are a way of getting out of here, without actually leaving."

Lambert smiled, surprised at how quickly she'd caught his train of thought. "Yes, just so."

"And what place is that book taking you to?"

"Ah." He flipped open the book and showed her the page he'd been reading. "To a place that exists only in reason and in my mind." He pointed at the drawings on the page. "This is a translation of a Saracen book, on how to use glass to bend light."

"Bend light? They way you bend metal?"

"Not quite." Lambert scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Have you ever looked through the glass in the church window. Well, that's how it works. See…"

He tried his best to explain the concept to her in a way she'd understand, and to his amazement, she was rapt, listening carefully and asking questions every now and then. Some of her questions were silly, but others were astute, reflecting a clever, if untrained, mind. Lambert was surprised to discover he was enjoying himself.

After a while, however, his attention began to flag, and Isabella was clearly tired as well. When he caught her yawning for the second time, he shut the book loudly and got up.

"I think that's enough of a lesson for today."

Isabella nodded and held her hand out to him. Lambert stared at it for a moment before reluctantly helping her to her feet.

"I see why you and Guy are friends now."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know. You're alike in a way. You're both new here, trying to find your place."

"Maybe. But I think we're rather different."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Guy wants to change himself, so he can fit into the world. And I'm not like that."

"No?"

"No. I want to change the world, make it fit me."

Isabella seemed stunned for a moment, but then she laughed, the sound bright and clear and utterly captivating. "Not too much to ask of the world then?"

He was still thinking about the sound of her laughter and could not muster an answer quick enough. He settled for nodding in an absent way, provoking more laughter.

"Thank you for sharing your book with me, Lambert" She inclined her head politely in his direction, and he returned the gesture. "Maybe you can read to me next time?"

"Yes, of course. If there is a next time."

"There will be. I promise."

\--


	5. Lift Your Voice

Chapter 5. Lift Your Voice

 _Early June 1176_

"What do you mean, 'insufficient progress'?" Guy bellowed at the novice master, forgetting his manners.

The novice master, an old but genial monk named Osbert, smirked at Guy, but did not respond, as if the answer to Guy's question was self-evident.

Guy crossed his arms and stared the master down defiantly. "I'll take this up with the abbot, you know." He waited for an answer, but when none came, he stomped off, not even bothering to see what reaction that got from Brother Osbert.

He was halfway to the abbot's quarters when the bells for vespers rang. Guy took a few deep breaths and schooled himself to calm and patience. Whatever words he wished to have with his uncle would have to wait until after prayers anyway, and the more considered and well-thought out his words were, the more likely he was to be taken seriously.

Brother Osbert had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not yet ready to enter the novitiate and would need at least another year of study before he was ready. Guy was at a loss. He had worked hard, done everything they had asked of him, and yet to be denied this chance to advance, to make something of himself in the service of God seemed cruel and unnecessary.

Still, he had confidence Abbot Martin would see things his way, and realize that Osbert's judgment had been unduly harsh. With that reassuring thought, Guy set the problem aside and gave his mind over to the liturgy. He was not overly fond of praying at every hour of the day, but he liked the Latin words, the cleverness of the way the words were made to play on each other, and ultimately, the way the words always led back to God. The order of the prayer, its predictability, even the mundane act of reciting the same words again and again appealed to Guy. He was not averse to change, but he preferred when it came slowly, as with the change of seasons, or with the long training a novice had to endure before he could be a monk and a shepherd to his flock.

Lately, however, there had been too many changes for Guy's liking. Brother Rupert, whom Guy had long thought of as a friend and ally, had been called away to a different cell in the spring. The abbot had been in England for much of that season, although he had never told Guy the nature or purpose of his travels. Guy had not pressed him, knowing his place and too preoccupied with other matters anyway.

Chief among these other matters was Isabella. He had no idea how she had managed such a thing, but a month ago, she'd convinced the abbess to allow her to apprentice herself to a webster in town. Guy had objected with great force, but although their uncle had agreed that weaving was not an appropriate occupation for a girl of noble birth, he'd allowed it nonetheless, arguing that Isabella needed to keep herself occupied to avoid the evil of an idle mind. To keep her safe from the townspeople was another matter, however, and Guy had ended up as her chaperone whenever she came from the women's abbey.

In fairness, Isabella seemed happy, and that was all Guy wanted for her. Seeing her smile reminded him keenly of their mother, and he vowed to keep her happy as long as he could. Whether she was genuinely interested in weaving, Guy could not quite tell. She spoke of it with some enthusiasm, but he had a suspicion she merely liked being away from the abbey and its rules for a few hours every week, and he could not grudge her such a small joy.

More than that, she appeared to have struck up a friendship with Lambert which both amused and alarmed Guy. He could not imagine what they had in common nor even what they talked about, but they chattered away at each other, and Guy found he did not particularly mind. For one, he thought the world of Lambert and knew Isabella would come to no harm from such a friendship. For another, having Lambert around to occupy Isabella on her visits meant Guy had more time to occupy himself with other pursuits.

One pursuit in particular was taking up much of his time these days, and he knew he was guilty of shirking some of his responsibilities in the abbey to pursue it. He'd seen her in town one day, the perfect bay roan, the first real destrier Guy had seen in his entire life. The horse trader had been kind to Guy, letting him see the animal up close, even touch it. But he had not been allowed to ride it, for reasons he understood well. Destrier horses were the finest horses in all the kingdom. They were bred for battle by knights of war, and Guy could not afford its tackle and saddle, much less the horse itself, but he'd been tempted and had since made several trips back to the trader's stables just to see the horse again.

Of course, a future monk would have no use for such a horse, but he'd hoped to be a novice soon and use that status as a guarantee of his good will to the trader. But if Osbert was right, that was not to be, and as the lilting tones of the prayers ended and vespers were called to a close, Guy found his ire rising again at the thought of all his hard work going in vain. He stalked out of the church, annoyed by the throng of people ahead of him who blocked his way.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Guy hissed in annoyance, only to find Lambert smiling at him. His irritation grew at the expression on his friend's face. If Lambert had been made a novice in his place…

"So I think you're stuck with me for a while longer, Guy."

Guy knit his eyebrows in confusion. "What?"

"Yes, haven't you heard? Brother Osbert says I've made 'insufficient progress.'"

\--

 _Midsummer's Eve, 1176  
In a field outside Caen_

Guy lay on the grass, enjoying the sight of the bright blue sky and the company of Isabella and Lambert on this best of all summer days. They had eaten a sumptuous feast as part of the midsummer festivities at the abbey, and now, exhausted by their own gluttony, they lay in the meadow outside the town, lazy and indulgent.

He had been pleasantly surprised by Isabella—both her arrival at the abbey and by her appearance. She was no longer as gaunt and tired-looking as she'd been when they had first arrived in France. There was color in her cheeks now, and although she was still quite thin, the child she had been even a year ago was gone now. She was not quite grown, and yet, Guy could clearly see the woman she would become one day. _And if I can see it, surely everyone else can…_

"Oh, look at that one!" Isabella exclaimed, pointing to the clouds. "It looks like Robin."

Guy startled, but said nothing, thinking instead that it looked nothing like Robin, because there really was no way for a cloud to look like a sanctimonious little…

Lambert's voice cut into his thoughts. "Who's Robin?"

"Er, he's…um…"

Isabella came to Guy's rescue. "He's just a boy we once knew. A very silly one." She nudged Guy gently and added with finality, "and he looks like that cloud."

"Nonsense!" Lambert snorted, sitting up and glaring down at them. "Clouds don't actually look like anything. They're clouds…they're made of air and water, and their shape is just a coincidence."

Isabella giggled and shoved him gently. "Really, Lambert. You take the fun out of everything. It's just a game."

"A game is a contest—of strength, or of wit. It has a point, and someone is meant to win or lose. What is the point of guessing what a cloud looks like? And how do we decide who wins?"

Guy watched in amusement as the two of them continued to argue, surprised both at Isabella's insistence on her point and Lambert's vehemence in arguing against it. They were talking about a trivial thing as if it were the most important thing in the world, and he had a sense there was a different, unspoken conversation going on that he was not party to. Disquiet, odd and jarring on so lovely a day, began to rise in his chest, and with effort, Guy suppressed the feeling and decided to step in to end the argument.

But it was too late. Isabella had gotten to her feet, not quite angry but clearly not as amused as she'd been earlier. "You can't see anything in the world that's nice or funny, Lambert. It's probably why your family left you here."

Lambert paled and fell silent. Guy gaped at his sister, appalled by her rudeness and lack of compassion for a friend. "Isabella! You take that back, right now."

She turned on Guy, eyes blazing, but in the blink of an eye, her expression changed, and she dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry, brother. I forgot myself." She kneeled down in front of Lambert and spoke with contrition. "I'm sorry to you as well. I shouldn't have said that."

Lambert had recovered his usual composure and simply shrugged off the apology. "Don't be sorry. My family did leave me here, although I doubt their cruelty had anything to do with my lack of humor." He smiled broadly at both of them, and Guy felt his tension ease.

Isabella did not seem convinced, her mouth set in a straight line and tears beginning to pool at the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry they did that to you. Maybe they're sorry, too."

"No." Lambert shook his head vehemently. "And I don't care anyway. Guy and you are more like family than they ever were."

Guy felt a sudden pang, a wave of empathy for Lambert, who knew more than anyone else at the abbey the loneliness of being an orphan. But he did not know how to answer, and as he vacillated over his response, he saw Isabella dry her eyes, and strangely, she started to laugh.

"Well, more fool you, Lambert. We're the worst possible family anyone could have!"


	6. Our Happy Throng

Chapter 6. Our Happy Throng

 _Early Spring 1177_

"We should go into town." Lambert announced this with fair confidence, as if he'd already decided to go.

"Why?"

"I don't know. To see how the rest of the world lives, I suppose."

Guy scoffed. "They live in filth and sin, and there is nothing to see."

Lambert frowned, but looked more amused than anything else. "Oh, because that's what they tell us here at the abbey?" He crossed his arms and smirked at Guy, waiting for a proper retort.

"I…" Guy floundered, searching for a way to explain that the world outside held no appeal for him.

"I'm going. If you'd like, come with me. I see no reason to stay here all the time. It's like a prison."

Guy balked. "It is not! It's a haven from all the ills and depravity of—"

"Oh, give over. You're not even a novice, and you already sound like a monk!"

Guy stopped short, detecting a familiar note in Lambert's words. It pricked at the back of his mind and begged for his attention, but he could not put a finger on it, and it left him feeling odd and dissatisfied. In his confusion, he could not think of a proper response to Lambert's accusation. So he sighed and conceded that maybe a trip to town was the thing he needed to clear his head.

It was a blustery day, and they shrunk down into their cowls and wrapped their cloaks tightly around them as they made the short trek into Caen town. Guy was always a bit awed by the sight of the town. For one, it was bigger than any he had seen before, including Nottingham. For another, there was a constant stream of noise and activity, of disorder, that set Guy on edge and made him wary.

Lambert, on the other hand, was perfectly at home, turning into alleys and lanes as if he'd known them his whole life, which of course he had. What was strange, at least to Guy, was that Lambert never stopped to speak to anybody in town: no familiar faces, no old friends or distant kinsmen. As far as Guy knew, Lambert had never known his brethren in Caen, or he'd conveniently forgotten them all in the three years since he'd come to the abbey. Guy had never reflected on it before, but Lambert was even more alone in the world than he was, and he felt great sympathy for him. _I'll be there for you, one day, if you need me, my friend…_

Presently, they turned into a blind alley that ended in a wider street leading to the town square, and to the chateau, a hulking mass of stone atop a hill that cast a wide shadow over the town. Banners and flags streamed from the towers of the keep, and there were armed guards at every gate. It was more forbidding than the Nottingham castle of Guy's memory, but his curiosity was aroused, and he wondered what it would be like to ride into the place with authority and arms.

He began to head towards it, trying to get a closer look, but Lambert pulled him back. "You can't go in there. They only let knights in these days."

"Why?"

Lambert shrugged. "I don't know the real reason. The rumor is that someone tried to kill the king during a market two years ago. Nobody's really been allowed to go in, except if they're invited.”

He gave Guy a meaningful look. "And it's not the sort of place you want to get invited to, I imagine."

Guy nodded, understanding Lambert's real meaning. "Where did you want to go?"

Lambert shook his head. "I don't know. A tavern maybe?"

Guy was taken aback. "We're not allowed to go to taverns?"

"Why not? We're not novices, we've taken no vows."

"But…it's dissolute!"

"It's dissolute to be drunk, not to drink. There's a difference."

Guy was certain there was no difference, at least not in the way that anyone at the abbey would appreciate. Still, Lambert was at least minimally right. Drinking itself was neither forbidden, nor a sin, and it was not as if there was much else they could do in town anyway.

At length, he gave in and let Lambert lead them to the part of town where the taverns were, nestled between various shops and the homes of tradesmen. But as they neared the place, Guy spied something far more interesting out of the corner of his eye. It was the bay roan he'd been coveting silently for months.

He'd assumed the horse would have been sold long ago, and he'd stopped asking after it, partly out of disappointment, and partly as penance for wanting it in the first place. But here it was, the same wonderful creature, being groomed by a young woman Guy did not recognize. The temptation, now so close at hand, was too much to resist, and Guy decided it was no sin to give in to a desire that was not forbidden to him.

"Um, Lambert. You go on ahead. I'll join you in a while."

Lambert gave the woman and the horse a quick look and nodded in Guy's direction, a smirk on his face as he left. Guy frowned, not quite comprehending, and the confused look must still have been on his face as he approached the woman, because she laughed as she watched him.

"They let you boys out of that place now, do they?"

Guy gaped at her, surprised at being addressed without preamble. "I beg your pardon, I—"

"Yeah, I know. You're one of those novices from St. Stephen's. Can't say we see your kind here too often, but it happens." She was nonchalant, and Guy bristled at being dismissed so easily.

"I'm not a novice. I'm a postulant. A student, if you will."

The woman smiled, the expression both crooked and charming. "And your studies bring you to town, do they?" She laughed, and Guy found himself laughing with her. Now that he was close enough to speak to her, he could see she was quite young, not more than a few years older than Guy. She had a clever pair of blue eyes in a pale face and hair the color of golden wheat. On a different day, he might have thought her pretty, but for now, his attention was on the horse.

"It's a beauty," he said, awed by the animal as much as by this unexpected opportunity to see it again.

"Aye, that it is." She gave him a curious look and handed him a brush. "Here, you may as well help, if you're just standing there."

He took the brush and watched her, copying her movements and speaking to the horse in low tones as she was doing. It only took a few minutes longer to finish the grooming, and after that, they both took the time to pat the horse down and thank it for its cooperation.

"Strange that horses are easier to please than people, don't you think?"

She gave Guy a curious look. "What's your name?"

"I'm sorry. I forgot my manners." Guy bowed his head politely. "I'm called Guy of Gisborne."

"Of Gisborne, eh? And where's that?"

Guy sighed. "It's in…it's nowhere."

"Ah." She nodded in understanding, although Guy was certain she had no idea what he really meant. "I'm called Anne. Of no place other than this one."

"You're the horse trader's wife?"

Anne laughed. "No! His sister."

Guy nodded, not bothering to tell her the trader had never mentioned a sister in the many times they'd spoken. _Of course, we only ever talked about horses…_

He hesitated, not sure how to carry the conversation further, or whether he was even expected to do so. At length, and after hesitating for several minutes, he turned his attention back to the horse. "I would have thought you'd have sold it by now."

"We have."

Guy tried—and failed—to mask his disappointment. "Do you know who bought it?"

Anne nodded. "One of the knights in the king's service. Vaysey, I think he's called?"

Guy shrugged. The name meant nothing to him, but he hoped the man had a proper appreciation of horses, or else the fantastic creature would be wasted on him.

"I shouldn't be so disappointed. It's not like I ever had any money to buy a horse like this."

Anne smiled, the expression at once amused and full of kindness. "Maybe you will one day."

He guffawed. "Yes, because there is so much money in the business of being a monk."

She laughed with him. "Just so. Maybe there's hidden treasure buried under the church floor."

Guy chuckled, thinking if this were true, Lambert surely would have found it by now. _Lambert…_

"Er, I'm sorry. But I have to go. I told a friend I'd meet him."

She shooed him off. "Yes, yes. Off with you. But come back and talk to me again."

"I shall. Thank you."

"Until then, Guy. Of Gisborne."

\--

Lambert leaned against the wall of the shack, breathing deeply. He was exhausted, of course, having practically run from the town square to the tiny weaver's shack. But he was also relieved. For whatever reason, Guy had decided not to join him on the trek to the tavern, leaving him free to come here and meet Isabella.

They had been doing this for months, sneaking out of their respective dormitories and meeting in town, but no matter how much time he spent thinking about it, Lambert could not discern why. The obvious reason was, of course, too obvious. If this was a tryst of some sort, it was the least romantic and most chaste tryst in the history of mankind. Moreover, his mind would not allow him to think of Isabella in such a way. For one, she was barely more than a girl, and for another, he was fairly certain his feelings did not incline towards her, or at least not in that way. He doubted she had any special sentiment for him either. She seemed to enjoy his company, if only because he was something of a novelty, a man who was like a brother, but not actually a brother.

He enjoyed her company as well, up to a point. Partly, this was because she was sensible and clever, a good listener, even if the things he spoke of were often outside the scope of her mind. But it was also because she made him see himself as he never had before. She would say profound things about him in an alarmingly matter-of-fact manner, and he would dismiss them at first, only to discover later that she was right. She was like a mirror turned on to his soul, and although her knowledge alarmed him, it also fascinated him.

But he was a man of reason, and it seemed to him wholly unreasonable that these meetings had to be so secret. They were doing nothing wrong and nothing of which either of them need be ashamed. So when Isabella had asked that he not tell Guy, he had balked. But later, when she'd insisted, he'd agreed, realizing it was much more important to her than to him.

The door to the weaver's shack creaked open, startling Lambert out of his thoughts. Isabella walked in, all windswept and ruddy from the cold.

"You're very late, Bella."

She turned around and smiled sheepishly. "I'm so sorry. Rose just learnt a new way to felt wool, and I wanted to see it." She laughed nervously as she spoke, still shivering a bit from the cold. "Like a good apprentice, yes?"

"Why are you doing all this anyway? It's not as if you really want to be a webster."

Isabella glared at him. "Maybe I do."

"Really?" He brought a hand to his chin and scratched for a moment, pensive. "Then tell me about the life of a weaver. Whatever you've learned so far."

She regarded him with narrowed eyes and then crossed her arms defiantly. "You go to market, and you buy wool. You get it cleaned and carded. You felt it and weave it into broadcloth. Then you sell the cloth at market.

"I'm not stupid, you know."

He smirked at her. "I know. How much for?"

"What?"

"How much do you sell the cloth for?"

"More than you paid for the wool."

"Ah, a profit. And what do you do with your profit?" Lambert was rather enjoying this little exercise in rhetoric and proving his point. He noted the rise of crimson on Isabella's cheeks and how attractive it made her. On reflection, however, he decided he didn't really like that he had noticed it.

She hissed at him. "Simple. You buy more wool."

Lambert tried to hide his amusement. "And that's what you want from your life? Endless days of haggling with the people who sell wool, the people who buy cloth and all the people in between?"

Isabella opened her mouth to reply, but promptly shut it again. He could tell from the slump of her shoulders and the way she was twisting the fabric of her dress together that she felt defeated. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her, an urge to embrace her and tell her he was sorry, but he fought it down and schooled himself to patience.

She sat down and sighed heavily. "What would you have me do, Lambert?"

"Whatever you want, Bella. Your life is your own."

"It's not though, is it? I'm meant to be pious and obedient and grateful. And I am, really. I'm very thankful for Guy, and for my uncle, and even the abbess.

"But I'm also a burden, on all of them, but especially on Guy. I want to be more than just dutiful. I want to be useful."

She paced the floor as she spoke, wearing a rut into the rushes and making Lambert nervous. "This gives me a trade, something to do. So I don't have to sit around and wait for some man to take pity on me and marry me."

"Marry you? Aren't you a bit young for that sort of thing?" Lambert tried to keep the note of alarm out of his voice. He could not understand just why, but the notion of Isabella as a married woman disturbed him more than he had expected.

She shrugged off the question. "I don't think it's too young. There was a girl at the abbey last year who was married at just fourteen."

Isabella stopped pacing and sat down on the floor in front of Lambert, leaning back on her hands and regarding him. "Of course, she had a dowry and a title she'd inherited from her mother. And I've got no dowry, no money and no title. Who would want me?"

Lambert tried to fight off his growing sense of disquiet. "Is that all you think about? Whether someone will marry you?"

Isabella narrowed her eyes at him. "No, but it's all we're allowed to think about it, isn't it?"

"Nonsense! Nobody can keep you from thinking, Bella. That's the beauty of it. What do you _really_ want to do?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want to fight. For myself. I want to take care of myself, protect myself." She started twisting her skirts under her fingers again, and he was tempted just to clamp his hands over hers to make her stop.

"But nobody wants that for me. Everyone tries to keep me safe, but I think they're just trying to keep me in a cage, until they decide what to do with me."

Overcome with sympathy for her, Lambert reached out and took her hand, regretting the gesture almost instantly. Isabella's eyes grew wide as she watched him and leaned over to take his other hand. Reflexively, Lambert pushed her away and stood up, trying to put more distance between them.

"Bella, I'm…"

She shook her head. "I know. I've always known."

His mind was awhirl, and he could not decipher what she meant. She did not give him a proper chance to reply anyhow. She smiled at him, her eyes bright, too bright. Then, unexpectedly, she stood on the tips of her toes, and kissed him on the lips. It was chaste, barely a brush of her lips against his, and had it come from any other girl, he would have thought nothing of it. But from Isabella, it was a revelation, and her eyes said whatever the kiss had not. He was too flustered to do more than stare after her as she left, a wistful smile on her face.

It was not until later, after night fell and the blustery wind drove Lambert back to the abbey that he realized he'd lost his heart.

\--


	7. One in Hope

Chapter 7. One in Hope

 _Mid-July 1177_

"Guy? A word." Martin beckoned his ward over to the end of the close. It had been weeks since he'd had a chance to speak to the lad, and this irked him. He had been busy of late, dealing with church business, most of it of the temporal kind that took him away from his flock. His brothers were more than capable of running the abbey in his absence, but he was Guy's guardian, and the boy was his charge. More to the point, he was Guy's spiritual father, and he could not risk losing the boy's soul out of inattention.

As Guy walked towards him, Martin took the opportunity to take a good look at his ward. Guy was as pale and as serious of demeanor as he'd been when he first arrived at the abbey, but he was better fed now, and there was a height and a sort of hidden strength that was unusual for a man of the cloth. _Put him in a tunic with a cross, and he will be exactly as his father once was._

That thought brought with it a wave of old anger and bitterness. He had never particularly liked Roger of Gisborne, blaming him for taking Ghislaine away from him, but also because his service as a knight for the king kept him from caring for her and the children. He had no idea what had brought about Ghislaine and Roger's death, but sometimes, he wondered if Roger himself had not been responsible. He resolved that he would ensure Guy did not end up like his father.

"My lord abbot." Guy inclined his head politely as he approached, and Martin returned the gesture in kind.

"It's good to see you, lad. It's been a long time."

"Yes. Your travels went well, I trust?"

Martin smiled genially. "As well as can be hoped, I think. The fate of men rests in the hands of God in the end, and there is little any of us can do to change it."

Guy chuckled. "Lambert says—"

"Lambert?"

"Er, he's my—one of the other postulants here."

Martin cast his memory back, trying to remember who this Lambert was and what his connection to Guy might be. A scattered image of a sullen boy, the son of a town merchant, came to him, as did snatches of conversation he'd had with Guy about this Lambert. He nodded. "Ah, yes, I think I remember now. And what does Lambert say?"

"He says…" Guy stopped short and hesitated. "Well, Lambert says a lot of things. I think he says them because he wants to be a radical or something."

Martin chuckled. If he had a ha'penny for every novice or postulant with radical ideas….

"And are you inclined to believe Lambert?"

Guy was pensive. "Yes, up to a point. He can be…persuasive, when he puts his mind to it."

Martin let Guy speak for a while longer, listening carefully to what the lad said, and even more intently to what he did not say, at least explicitly. He did not know if others could see it, but Guy had changed in the past few months. He seemed more confident, easier with himself and around others, and for the first time, Martin sensed power in him, the sort that would have to be channeled properly first.

Guy fell silent, and Martin allowed the lull to take over for a few moments before clapping his ward gently on the shoulder. "I should like to speak to you more, Guy. Come see me. Tomorrow. After matins."

Guy nodded obediently and took his leave. As he walked away, Martin caught sight of Osbert, the novice master.

"Brother Osbert, if I could have a word."

"Of course, my lord abbot. May I ask what about?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, but I was wondering if you might tell me about one of the postulants? A lad named Lambert?"

\--

"What are you reading?" Isabella tried to keep the complaint out of her voice, but she was bored, and more, she was frustrated by Lambert's refusal to speak to her properly. _Or at least the way boys are supposed to talk to you after you've kissed them!_

"It's a book on alchemy." He looked up over the top of the book, just for a moment, before turning his attention back to the page.

"Alchemy." She shuffled her feet noisily, trying to get his attention. "Like changing lead to gold?"

"Yes, that," he said, to nobody in particular. "But there's more to it than that. Alchemy is about learning how things go together, separating them and putting them back together." He snapped the book shut and gave her his full attention, still not quite meeting her eyes. "It's a way of understanding the world, the way it's put together."

She nodded, not really caring about alchemy or what he had to say on the matter, but pleased he was at least speaking to her. "And do you understand it? The world, I mean."

He began to answer, but caught her real meaning. His expression clouded and he looked away, past her.

Isabella sighed. "Why won't you talk to me?"

"I _am_ talking to you." His sigh echoed hers as he set the book down and gave her a frank look, the first time that evening he'd looked at her properly. "What do you want me to say, Bella?"

"If you don't want—if you're angry with me, why do you even bother to come here?"

He banged his fist on the floor in frustration, the sudden noise startling her. "I'm not angry with you! I wish I was, because it would be easier.

"Don't you see, Bella? I'm afraid of you."

"What?"

"I'm not even supposed to be here, but I keep coming back to see you. It's madness!" Lambert's voice rose in the quiet of the webster's cottage, echoing off the walls and Isabella shivered in response.

"And I'm scared. Of what you're going to say. Of what you'll expect me to say."

"I don't expect anything."

"Don't say that! Of course you do. People always do."

She nodded, and on impulse, she dropped down to her haunches, leaning on the wall beside him, close enough to touch him without actually doing it. "I don't. Really. It's enough for me that you're here."

He sighed. "Don't you see, Bella? That's the problem. Will that always be enough?"

"Yes."

"No, it won't. Don't lie. To me or to yourself." He got up and stalked away, putting distance between them. "I'm going to be a monk one day. And what will you do then?"

She bristled but kept her calm, knowing that anger and tears would have no effect on Lambert. He'd dismiss her feelings altogether and probably just walk away, and she did not want that. "Do you still want that? To be a monk, that is."

Lambert looked surprised. "Er, yes. What's the point of it all otherwise?"

"Not every postulant becomes a novice. Some leave the church, don't they?"

"Yes." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Is that what you want from me? That I should leave the church?"

She shook her head. "No. It's not about me. It's about what you want for yourself. That's what you said to me once, remember?"

He laughed, in an odd and mirthless way. "I say a lot of things, Bella. It would be best if you didn't remember them all."

She laughed. "Some things you tell me are quite useful. Like last week."

"What did I say last week?"

"That a sack of mustard could be a weapon in the right hands."

He chuckled. "See? That's just what I mean. You can't believe a man who says things like that." He let the laughter die out, as he walked slowly back to where she was sitting. He slid down on to the floor next to her. "The truth is, Bella, I don't really know what I want.

"And I can't tell you what you want to hear. Not just yet. I need…a bit of time."

She nodded. "We have all the time in the world, Lambert."

\--

Guy took a swig of his small beer and chewed on the hunk of hard bread he'd been offered, grateful for the company, if not the meager meal. Anne had invited him to see the horse trader's new stock, and although there was no beast as marvelous as the bay roan they'd sold over the winter, the new animals were handsome and useful. He suspected Anne's brother would be paid nicely for most of the animals.

In the back of his mind, on the rare occasions when he was not overwhelmed by guilt, Guy allowed that the horses were not the real reason he kept coming back to the trader's paddock. He liked Anne, liked talking to her, watching her, and in a way that was not at all proper for a man set on a career in the church.

She was a tall woman, only about a head shorter than Guy himself, and thanks to the summer sun, her golden locks had paled into tresses the color of spun silk. She'd become freckled from her time outside, and there was a dusting of spots across her nose that Guy found particularly distracting, especially when she laughed, as she was doing now.

He frowned at her. "What?"

"You've got a bit of—something. On your chin." She shook her head, and before he could protest, reached over and wiped off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "There. All gone."

Reflexively, Guy reached up and felt the spot on his face she had touched, and he thought he could still feel the warmth of her fingers. He was tempted to laugh, but thought better of it. He knew it would not do to appear the fool in front of her, even if she did often leave him feeling just a little foolish.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She knit her eyebrows, taken aback, and then laughed loudly. He had a sense she was laughing at him, that he was a bit of a joke to her. He bristled inwardly, even though he tried his best to hide his hurt behind a wan smile. "You think too much, too hard, about everything, Guy. You should try just being yourself."

He frowned at her, not quite understanding what she meant. Was he not being himself? Did she feel like he was making a pretense of friendship? "I…I don't think I understand you."

"Nobody understands me. It's why I'm so charming." She gave him a small, crooked smile, and her amusement touched Guy, infecting him. He found himself chuckling heartily at her little joke, enjoying himself.

"You should laugh more. It does nice things to your face."

Guy felt a sudden stab of shyness at the unexpected compliment. He turned away, hoping against hope that his face had not gone its usual shade of crimson. "You shouldn't say those kinds of things."

"Why not? There's no law against speaking your mind." She dropped her voice to a whisper and added conspiratorially, "At least not yet."

He shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It's just…not proper."

"Because you're a boy and I'm a girl? Or because you're a boy playing at being a monk, and I'm a girl?"

"I'm not playing at—"

She smirked at him, as if she had won a point in a game of wits, but said nothing else. That was enough to sow a tiny kernel of suspicion in Guy's mind. _Am I really playing at it?_ He shook his head, trying to clear this new bit of self-doubt. He had chosen a path, and he was determined to walk on it. Who was this girl anyway, a rank outsider who presumed to know everything about him? He seethed for a moment, cursing her silently for her presumption, but he cautioned himself to calmness and adopted once again the mask of studied indifference he'd worn since he was a child.

"So what are _you_ playing at then?"

Anne had been biting into an apple, and she stopped short at his question, her mouth still formed around the piece of fruit. She spat it into her hand hastily, and gaped at him "What?"

"I'm playing at being a man of the cloth. That's my part in this game. What's yours?"

She regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment and then, abruptly, she stood up and nodded at him, heading for the door. "Alright, that's good. Fair play to turn it around on me like that."

"That's not even an answer." He tried to keep the note of alarm out of his voice. "You're leaving without answering my question."

She wheeled around and glared at him. But then her expression softened, and she sighed. Guy thought he spied tears in her eyes, but she scrubbed at them before they could fall.

"Two years ago, my brother sold one of the king's men a horse. A beautiful animal. That bay roan you wanted was like a mule before this horse.

"And the knight who bought it, he knew a lot about horses…how they're bred, what sort of horse is good for riding to battle, how to break a colt, that sort of thing.

"He wanted to test the steed he was buying, so he rode the horse down the street at full speed, not caring that it was a market day, that there were women and children there. He trampled a man to death, and then he just rode off, as if it were nothing at all."

She was distraught, not even hiding her tears as they streamed down her face. Guy was aghast, not only at her sudden grief but at the galling tale of cruelty that brought it on.

"The man who died, he was my husband. We'd been married four days. Four days!"

She laughed suddenly, a hysterical sound that rent the air and frightened Guy a little. "So that's who I am, widowed at eighteen, who lives with her brother because she has no other place to go.

"And the best part is I'm not even playing at it."

She walked out, slamming the door shut behind her, and as the sound reverberated over the tiny space, all Guy could think was that Anne sounded exactly like Isabella.

\--

 _Two days later_

Guy caught Isabella out of the corner of his eye, hoping he could discern—perhaps from her facial expression—why they were here. But she seemed as mystified as he was, and when she caught his eye, she gave him a questioning look. He shrugged in response, and they both resigned themselves to waiting for an answer.

He'd been called into the abbot's chambers earlier that morning, and the fact that Isabella had been asked to join them set Guy on edge. He could not imagine what the abbot had to say that required her presence, and the uncertainty of it left him feeling nervous and fidgety.

Isabella, on the other hand, was her usual implacable self. Guy was impressed at how well she kept her composure, considering her age and the blows fate had already dealt her. She held herself straight, like a sword ready to be wielded, and to Guy, she often seemed as poised and balanced as a good weapon, too.

There were other changes as well, although with these Guy was less comfortable. He suspected they were the sort of things other men would notice, and he felt powerless to do anything about it. His only consolations were that she was reasonably safe from prying eyes at the nunnery and that Isabella herself had shown little interest in the sort of coy and flirtatious behavior girls of her age seemed to enjoy so much. He also had great confidence in Isabella being a sensible sort of girl, the sort who did not get her head easily turned by pretty dresses and baubles. It would take far more to get her attention, and as no suitors had yet come calling, Guy dismissed his concerns out of hand.

Isabella cleared her throat to get his attention and inclined her head towards the door. On her prompting, Guy noticed the sound of feet shuffling over the stone floor. He stood and drew himself up to his full height, motioning Isabella to her feet.

They bowed low, neither bothering to look up until the abbot spoke. The man himself did not stand on ceremony, and Guy knew this, but he wanted to make a good impression, and more than that, he was keen to set a good example for Isabella, to show her how nobles were expected to comport themselves in public. He doubted she was receiving much training on that score from the nuns at the abbey, so he took it on himself to make up for the lack.

"Oh, no bowing and ring-kissing now. Come, let me take a good look at both of you." The abbot embraced them both quickly before waving them back into their chairs.

"So Isabella, my child, how have you been? The abbess tells me you're quite the seamstress."

Isabella reddened at the complimenting, surprising Guy. "I try, Uncle. I don't know if it's a useful skill to have, but my lady the abbess says it helps cultivate patience. And we are all in need of patience, are we not?"

Martin chuckled. "Yes indeed. Perhaps we should all take up sewing then."

Isabella joined in the laughter, clearly pleased that her little joke had gone down so well. Guy, on the other hand, was finding it difficult to be cheerful without knowing why the abbot had called them both to his offices.

Martin seemed to catch his train of thought. "If you're wondering whether you're both in some sort of trouble, let me set your mind at ease.

"You're here together, because I have a matter of importance to discuss with you, both of you."

Martin sat down in his chair and leaned back, long fingers poised on the desk in front of him. "Tell me, what do you know of your family's history?"

"Sire?" Guy understood the question well enough, but he had no idea how to answer or whether an answer was actually expected.

"Do you know anything of your father's ancestors, where they came from, how they died…that sort of thing?"

Guy tried to conjure up a list of ancestors in his mind but found he could not quite remember the names of many of them, and the others he was certain he'd never really known.

Isabella stepped up, her voice soft but confident. "I know some of the names. Godfrey of Gisborne, he was our grandfather."

"Yes, Godfrey. Do you remember him?"

Guy shook his head. "No, he was long gone by the time we were born."

Martin nodded. "Godfrey was an English baron. His holdings were not large, nor was he very wealthy, but he was a good knight, and he was unfailingly loyal to his lord and master, the old king Henry.

"When the king died and all the troubles began, Godfrey threw his lot behind the king's daughter, Matilda. But things did not go well for Matilda, when Stephen became King of the English in her stead.

"She could not wage her war from English soil, so she took refuge here, in France, and her loyal knights came with her, including Godfrey, of course."

Guy listened in rapt attention. He'd heard very little about his grandfather, and to get an account of him from someone who might have known him was an unexpected—and pleasant—surprise.

Martin continued speaking, holding up a hand to silence Guy when he tried to interject. "Godfrey had a reputation as a strong man, a good soldier, and other knights flocked to his standard, making him powerful. And indispensable to Matilda.

"In return for his unflinching loyalty, Matilda promised Godfrey an earldom in England, and Godfrey rejoiced, because it meant his family would finally have land and title and honor."

Martin had a faraway look on his face, as if he we were in a dream. The abbot would have only been a small boy during the struggles between Stephen and Matilda, and Guy allowed that Martin had probably heard the story from another. _Maybe Father told him…_

Isabella interrupted. "What happened to all that then?"

Martin smiled, but the expression was a wistful one, fleeting and sad. "Henry Curtmantle happened.

"When Matilda first came to Normandy with her most loyal knights, Henry was just a young lad. Godfrey came with them, of course, and he brought his young son with him, to foster with an old friend.

"The son was Roger, your father, and the friend was Robert of Lisieux, my father."

Isabella made a tiny sound of surprise, not quite a gasp, but perfectly audible. Guy caught her eye, cautioning her to silence, but also sharing his own surprise with her. They now knew how their parents had first met, and the knowledge was both joyous and sobering.

"With Godfrey's help, Henry was able to raise an army in a few short years, and he traveled to England to win himself the throne.

"And win he did, of course. When Stephen died, Godfrey tried to remind Henry of his mother's promise. But Henry was a young king, and he now needed friends in high places, men of wealth and influence. So the earldom went to another, and Godfrey was banished, sent back to Normandy to live out his life in penury."

"He died soon after, a bitter and broken man, I imagine. Henry felt guilty, of course, so when he heard Roger had married, he gave him a small holding in the middle of England somewhere. The village of Locksley, in return for Roger's continued loyalty and service."

Martin turned to both of them, regarding them carefully through narrowed eyes. "That was the last time I saw Ghislaine and Roger. But sometimes when I look at the two of you, I can see them as clearly as if they were sitting here before me."

He shuffled some papers on his desk absently, as if he were buying time. Guy was on the edge of his seat, eager to hear more.

"You must wonder why I brought you here, just to tell you a tale of woe you can do nothing with."

Guy shook his head. "No, no. We understand."

The abbot smirked. "Do you now?"

Guy paled and fell silent, but Isabella had no such qualms. She looked Martin straight in the eyes, her voice clear as she spoke. "You want us to help you take revenge on the king!"

Martin gaped at her for a moment before shaking his head. "Oh, no. Or at least not in the way you suggest, my girl! That would be…well, treason, and it's best you don’t speak of such things so lightly."

"I apologize for my sister, Uncle. She's not—"

"No, don't be sorry. She's not wrong, not entirely. While I don't think Henry deserves your vengeance, perhaps he does need a reminder that he owes certain people certain favors.

"It is time he recalled the services rendered to him by the Gisborne family, time for him to make restitution."

"And what do you want us to do?" Isabella surprised Guy with her forthright manner.

"Your duty. You will both serve the king in some way and earn your reward in the form of the earldom that was promised to you. There will be a Lord Gisborne in England one day, but you will have to make it happen."

He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Do you understand?"

Guy and Isabella nodded in unison, but although he was agreeing with the abbot, Guy had no idea what was really expected of him, and he set aside his usual polite restraint and took Isabella's direct approach instead.

"How are we expected to serve the king? I am only a postulant, and if all goes well, I may be a brother of this order one day, but—"

Martin held up a hand. "The king wishes to be all-powerful, and to do so, he must have the Church on his side. He must show Rome that he is a penitent man and a good Christian. To do this, he must surround himself with clever men, dependable ones. Men of the cloth." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Guy, who finally understood where the conversation was leading.

"I am to be like Thomas Becket?"

Martin laughed. "Yes, as brilliant as Becket, but with less of the martyrdom." Guy joined in the laughter, not sure how else to react.

"To that end, the focus of your studies here are to be changed, Guy. You will be trained properly in history and philosophy, and in the law, both civil and canon.

"You will be sent to Chartres, where you will learn from John of Salisbury himself. He was my teacher, and with luck, you will learn from him as much as I did."

"What?"

Martin raised an eyebrow at him. "Was I unclear? I'm happy to repeat it all."

"No, I…I mean, it is an unexpected…surprise that I am leaving this place." Guy floundered, searching for the right words. "When does all this happen? When am I leaving?"

Martin nodded in understanding. "Not for a while yet. Some arrangements must be made, before we can move forward."

Guy nodded, and when silence fell on the room, he became lost in his thoughts. Chartres! He had heard of the place, of course, and its great cathedral, but he felt honored that his uncle thought him up to the task of being a scholar. Of John of Salisbury, he knew naught. The name sounded oddly familiar, as if there was some reason he should know it. But nothing came to him, and after a few minutes of pondering the matter, he gave up. _Lambert will know, I'll just ask him…_

Isabella's voice, now small and lacking any of its previous confidence, cut into his thoughts. "And what it is to become of me, Uncle?"

Martin gave her a quick appraisal before answering. "You have a role to play in this, too. If Guy is to do as Thomas Becket did, you will do as his sisters."

Isabella gasped, but recovered quickly. Guy watched as she took a deep breath and met Martin's eyes evenly. She nodded once, and abruptly, she stood and curtsied. "I should like to be excused. I need to return to the women's abbey before nightfall."

If Martin was surprised at this, he did not show it. He nodded in her direction and bid her farewell, and as she shut the door behind her, Guy had a sense he'd been party to some strange and silent bargain between Martin and Isabella.

He looked to Martin for clarification, but the abbot said nothing, sitting back at his desk, and busying himself with the scrolls on it. Several minutes passed, and Guy, unsure what to do next, cleared his throat gently. Martin looked up at him once and nodded curtly. "I think that will be all, Guy. I thank you for your time. Good day."

Guy bristled but took the dismissal in stride. "Good day, my lord abbot."

\--  



	8. Promise That Cannot Fail

Chapter 8: Promise That Cannot Fail

 _Early September 1177  
Church of the Holy Trinity (Abbaye aux Dames), Caën_

Martin kneeled on the cold flagstones of the private chapel he'd been provided. He'd come here to see the abbess of the Holy Trinity, and although he was her temporal and spiritual superior—by virtue of being abbot of St. Stephen's—the abbess was considerably older and wiser than Martin himself.

There was also her rank to consider. The Lady Marie was not just the mistress of the abbey and its church, but a rather powerful noble in her own right. Through her father, she had been Countess of Boulogne until only a few years before, and in her younger years, when her father Stephen had been King of the English, she had been a princess and a much-courted heiress. Now, made the abbess of a grand church after her divorce, she still carried herself with a distant and regal air, and though Martin did not put a lot of store in titles and wealth, he felt small and often uncomfortable in her presence.

But even that was only a trivial matter, a discomfort to be overcome with patience and effort. Martin was far more troubled by the abbess's wit, which matched his own and clearly outpaced any of her peers in the Church. She had a way of speaking that was both clever and pointed, and she knew well how to play games with words. Though Martin was entirely equal to a verbal sparring match, she had kept him waiting for nearly half the day, knowing this would put him at a disadvantage.

He finished his prayers and crossed himself, silently offering God an apology for being so distracted. As he rose, the stone scuffed his robes and he suddenly felt rather foolish, waiting in a small, cold room for a woman to give him her attention. _This is why it is good you never married…_

He laughed silently to himself, amused at the idea, but the laughter disappeared when the door swung open to admit the abbess. She was a tall, severe-looking woman, but the set of her eyes and the shape of her face suggested a once-beautiful lady, now succumbing slowly to the passage of time. Unlike the simple brown robes he wore, the uniform of the Benedictine monk, the abbess was dressed in rich, dark brocade, the uniform of a wealthy and powerful woman.

She smiled genially in his direction. "My lord abbot. To what do I owe the honor?"

Martin bowed and returned her smile. "My lady abbess. It amuses me to be in your company, and that is my only reason for being here."

Marie laughed. "Ah, if it were only so simple. You never come here for your own amusement, although your visits do provide me with much-needed distraction."

Martin noted the slight hint of mockery in her voice. He was tempted to repay her in kind but decided it could wait until the next time. For now, there were much more important things to be discussed. "Very well. I'm here to see you about my ward, the lady Isabella."

"Ah. In that case, perhaps a more private setting." She nodded at the sister who stood by the door, who excused herself politely. Two rather sturdy looking nuns came in with chairs and refreshments, and once they left, Marie waited politely until Martin was settled in his chair before taking her own seat. "How can I help you?"

"There has been an offer of marriage for Isabella."

"I see." Marie poured herself a cup of wine and sipped, watching Martin over the rim of the cup. He found he did not mind the scrutiny itself, but the silent judgment pronounced with it troubled him greatly.

"Yes, Thornton of Shrewsbury. In England."

Marie frowned. "I can't say I'm familiar with that name, at least not among those who were at my father's court."

Martin paused and cleared his throat gently. "Yes, well…the family was not originally noble, although perhaps they were ennobled later."

She raised an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue.

"I believe his father was a merchant of some sort, a mercer perhaps." Martin was about to continue, when the abbess laughed, interrupting him.

"My lady?"

She shook her head, still chuckling. "It's nothing. Only, how oddly appropriate that Isabella's suitor should be the son of a mercer!"

Martin knit his eyebrows in confusion. "I'm not sure I follow, my lady."

"No, it's nothing, really. Carry on, tell me more."

"He is lord of a rather large and well-appointed estate in England, I'm told."

Marie nodded. "Where is this place, this Shrewsbury?"

Martin shrugged. "I do not know for certain, but somewhere in the east, or perhaps the west. Near the Welsh Marches, I think."

"I see." She set her cup down and studied him. "So why do you need to discuss this with me? She is your ward, and if you wish to marry her off and send her into the wilderness, that is your decision."

Martin considered his words carefully before speaking. "That is true, and I have already made my decision. This is a…courtesy to you, if you will."

"Ah, my lord abbot. You are as haughty and presumptuous as ever."

"I know."

They shared a polite chuckle over this, before Marie continued in a more serious vein. "Have you put this to the girl already?"

"Yes."

"And she agrees?"

"She's…I cannot say if she agrees, but she has not refused. And she understands well her duty in this regard."

Marie smiled, and if Martin had not known better, he would have thought it a sympathetic expression, almost a sad one. "Duty. Yes, of course. What else is there?"

"My lady abbess—"

"She's only thirteen. That is a very young age for marriage."

Martin shrugged. "She's nearly fourteen, and her own mother was married at that age."

"I see." She gave Martin a withering look. "Marriage is a very difficult thing, my lord. We're asked to give ourselves to men we do not like, to live in places we've never heard of, where we have neither friend nor kin. We are asked to be brood mares for a house that will not remember us long after we are dead and gone.

"And the reward for all this is more servitude, first to our husbands, then to our sons." She scoffed. "Why do you wish such a life on that poor girl?"

"You must think me terribly cruel."

Marie said nothing.

"I only wish to prevent her from a catastrophe—a worse life than she deserves." He gave the abbess a meaningful look, and she responded, first with surprise and then with an understanding nod.

"I see. That does…cast the matter in a different light, yes." She sat back down and fell silent, obviously considering the matter carefully. After several long moments of silence, she finally spoke. "What do you need from me?"

"I need you to help her prepare. She's a girl without a coin to her name and no dowry. In a sense, she's fortunate to get a match at all, much less a man of wealth and position. I want her to understand this is not a bad thing."

Marie nodded. "It could be a good thing, if everything goes right."

"Yes, just so."

Marie watched him for a moment before nodding her head once. "Very well, my lord abbot. Consider it done."

\--

 _Two days later  
Outside the Abbey aux Hommes_

They lay on the rain-spattered grass under a starlit sky, not caring that their clothes would get wet or that curious onlookers might spot them. For one, it was a surprisingly warm night for the early autumn. For another, they were doing no more than talking, and any prying eyes would surely be disappointed.

Lambert pointed a long finger to the sky. "And that one there, that's called the princess. To go with the king and queen," he added. He liked the idea of stars existing in families. He thought it was right that at least the firmament was a happy place, or there would be no reason for man to look to the stars.

It had been his idea to come here, so late at night. Isabella had been sullen and withdrawn, and he thought perhaps just seeing the night sky would make her feel better, but given her reactions to everything he'd shown her so far, this had been a miscalculation.

He sighed and turned to face her, admiring how perfect her face looked in the pale light. It was a balancing act he had not yet mastered, noting her beauty with the logic of a scholastic man, while dismissing its effect on him. The truth was that he rather enjoyed looking at her, speaking to her, even just being with her. _If this is love…_

Lambert cursed himself under his breath and focused his attention on Isabella's mood. "Are you all right? Is something wrong?"

She turned to face him, the moonlight catching her blue eyes in a way that made it impossible for him to look away. "Wrong? No, not wrong. I'm just…feeling a bit out of sorts, I suppose."

He nodded and let the matter go. If there was anything wrong with her and she thought his words might help, she'd ask for them. It was not like Isabella to keep things to herself without cause. Silence fell between them, but unlike every other day, it was not a comfortable one. There was an uneasy edge to it that even Lambert noticed, for all his lack of sentimentality.

"If I went away, would you miss me?"

He moved away from her, caught off-guard by the sudden question. "What?"

"If I were to go away somewhere, would you miss me? Would you think of me?"

Lambert did not hesitate. "Of course I'd think of you. You are a friend. A dear friend. I should miss you if you went away.

" _Are_ you going away?" He tried to keep the hint of worry out of his voice, but there was no denying his concern that she might not be around him anymore.

Isabella shrugged. "No. Not right away. I just needed to know if it would make a difference to you."

"Bella, I—"

She cut him off. "Oh, enough of that. I've had a trying day. Let's talk about something else. Something happy." She reached over and took his hand, and this time, though all reason commanded he stop her, he did not.

"Like what?"

"Do you remember that story you told me? About the Cornish knight and the Irish princess?"

He knit his eyebrows. "Tristan and Isolde? I thought you wanted to hear something happy?"

She sighed. "It's not the story that makes me happy, Lambert. I just like the way you tell it."

He laughed in response. "Very well. If that's what you want."

Lambert took in a deep breath and began. "If you would hear a high tale of love and of death, here is that of Tristan and Queen Isolde. How to their full joy, but to their sorrow also, they loved each other, and how at last they died of that love together upon one day; she by him and he by her…"

The words poured out, and as the stars passed above them, Lambert felt the weight of love, the creep of darkness, the beginning of the inevitable end. In his sorrow, he never saw the shadowy figure watching them from the darkness.

\--

 _Two days later_

Guy walked into the kitchens, drenched from the rain, his boots caked with mud, despite the short distance from his rooms to outbuildings of the abbey. The weather was perfect, he decided, the stormy skies a suitable complement to his mood of these past two days. He dropped the pails he was carrying near the entrance, the wood clattering noisily against the stones as water sloshed over and spilled onto the floor.

He spied Lambert sitting at the end of the long novice table, a book in one hand and a half-eaten piece of bread in the other. Guy felt seething fury roil in his stomach, and he took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He was beyond angry with Lambert, for whatever he was doing with Isabella, for the way in which he had betrayed Guy, his friend—his only friend!

He stomped over to where Lambert sat, determined to shake the other man and have his justice, but before Guy could even speak, Lambert saw him and bounded up, leaping at Guy and grabbing him by the collar of his tunic.

"John of Salisbury! _You_ get to go study with John of Salisbury!"

Guy, surprised by this sudden assault and by Lambert's words, staggered away from him. "What are you talking about?"

"I just found out. You, of all people. You're given the chance to study with one of the greatest minds of our time. And I bet you don't even care!" Lambert's despair was palpable, and in it, Guy saw a reflection of himself, a glimpse of what Lambert really thought of him.

Old anger and new bitterness rose like bile in his throat, burning him and making it difficult even to speak. He struggled against it and fought off the feeling, spitting words back at Lambert. "What is that supposed to mean? You think I'm too stupid to be a scholar?"

"No!" Lambert's eyes slid away from Guy's, whether out of guilt or anger, Guy could not say. "You are not stupid at all. But you're not a scholar. This is not your dream…

"You're a soldier, Guy. You like having order in your life. You like having rules to follow, and you never question any of it. You'll be a great man one day, but you'll never be a scholar. Don't you see?"

Guy bristled at Lambert's words, despite knowing they were not meanly meant. "So you want me to give up a chance to make something of myself? Because you can't do it?"

"No, I never said that. I'm just…lamenting that the world is so cruel. Not just to me, but to you as well. What are you going to do as a monk, Guy? Is it really what you want?"

"No." Guy hissed at Lambert, sensing an opportunity, a chink in his opponent's armor. I don’t think it's what you want either. Is it?"

It was Lambert's turn to be confused. "What? I have no—"

"Don't play me for a fool, Lambert! I know everything. I saw you. With my sister!"

Lambert paled. All the starch went out of him suddenly, and he flopped onto the bench, defeated. But he said nothing, no words in defense of himself or in contradiction of Guy's accusation.

"Were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to betray me? She's my sister, Lambert. That's the honor of my house and—"

"Oh, please. Don't speak of it like you need to avenge her or something. Nothing happened. Nothing at all, I promise."

Guy narrowed his eyes, challenging Lambert, but the other man met his gaze evenly, and though he appeared frightened, he did not back down. Lambert never lied, for he had no use for falsehood, and knowing this, Guy stepped back, giving Lambert a moment to recover.

"Do you love her?"

Lambert shook his head. "I don't know. I'm not even sure I know what that word means. I think she's clever and funny, and I like talking to her. I'd be sad if we fell out tomorrow and never spoke again, but does that mean I love her? Is that all there is to love? Tell me!"

Guy stayed silent, allowing he knew even less about love than Lambert did. "I don't know what to say. It's the sort of thing you have to decide for yourself, isn't it?"

Lambert did not appear to have even heard Guy's words. "And what if I am? What if I do love Isabella? What do I do with that knowledge?" He put a hand to his head, confused and despairing. For a tiny moment, Guy considered embracing him, if only to console him.

"I'm to be a monk, Guy. What sort of life can a monk give a girl? And if I leave this place, what will become of me? Will I be able to care for her, give her what she needs? What answer can I give you when I haven't got one myself?"

Guy tried to shake off his own growing despair and cast about for an answer that would solve Lambert's dilemma. Nothing came to him, but as he was about to concede defeat and allow Lambert to wallow in whatever misery he had made for himself, it struck him why Lambert would never find an answer to his questions.

Lambert was a man of reason. He liked to analyze every situation, turn a problem over in his hands, look at it from every angle and ponder on the solution. But all he ever did was think. No action ever followed any of that reasoning.

To be fair, Lambert was right about Guy. He liked rules, and he rarely questioned why he was required to do things in a certain way. He merely did them, and when the consequences of his actions were not what he expected, he worked to set things right. He was a man of action, a true soldier – but Lambert was wrong about everything else. There was no reason a soldier could not be useful to the Church, no reason a love of rules and order could not be applied to scholarly pursuits.

"Maybe it's time you did something."

Lambert looked stunned. "What?"

Guy sighed. "I'm just saying that an action is sometimes better than all the words used to describe it. If you—"

They were interrupted by the loud chiming of the bells at St. Stephen's, calling the abbey to prayers. Lambert sighed and nodded in Guy's direction. "I think I understand."

"I hope you do." _For Isabella's sake._

\--


	9. Gates of Hell

Chapter 9. Gates of Hell

 _Mid-September 1177_

Guy shuffled slowly along the dirt path from the church back to his rooms, his mind awhirl with the events of the past few days. There had been no new revelations, either from Lambert or Isabella, and although many at the abbey had congratulated him on hearing of his new appointment with John of Salisbury at Chartres, Guy himself was no more certain of it than he'd been when he had first heard the news. Mostly, he was worried that Lambert's words would come true and he would prove to be an unworthy scholar.

The truth was that the deeper exploration of science, philosophy and law simply did not interest him. He liked hearing about the kings of old, how they'd vanquished their enemies and forged new alliances. The day's lessons—on Aristotle, whose philosophies he did not particularly care for—had been going well, until Lambert, more fractious and sullen than usual, had picked a fight with the lessons master. It was an argument over a point that none of the other students either understood or cared about, and Lambert had been properly scolded for his impertinence and sent away, leaving Guy to himself for the rest of the day.

Briefly, he'd considered going into town on the pretext of seeing the horse trader, but really to see Anne. In the past few weeks, since he'd learned her true predicament, he'd developed a new fondness for her he had not quite expected. He'd realized she was more than just a pretty woman with a clever mind. She was someone who needed him, to help her, maybe even protect her, but he did not think Anne could relate to his current problems with Lambert, or even his future plans, so he decided against it, preferring to keep to himself.

The solitude was welcome in its way, giving him some much-needed peace and quiet, a chance to think, but no matter how much he applied himself to the problem, no solution presented itself. He still had no idea how to set things right for Isabella so that she could rely on Lambert and yet not have to suffer any consequences. Leaving a monastery was no trivial matter. To abandon God and the men who had traveled the path with you, to disregard all the sacrifices the abbey had made in feeding and clothing you was nothing short of betrayal, and for all his talk of brave reason, Lambert knew enough about society not to chance such a thing.

Still, it was not as if novices never left the monastic orders. It happened a few times every year, and more often than not, the reason was not a woman but some circumstance beyond the man's control. Last year, two novices had left when their fathers had died and they'd had to return home to care for their families. The church was not so cruel or removed from everyday life that it did not understand the compulsions of ordinary men. Still, it was one thing to have to leave because Fate had decreed it, and quite another to leave because of love.

Perhaps his uncle would have an answer. This thought reassured Guy, and he picked up his pace as he doubled back on the path and headed to the abbot's chambers, kicking himself for not thinking of this sooner. Halfway up the stairs to his destination, hesitation began. His uncle was a busy man and did not always have time to spare for the whims and fancies of his wards. It would be better to let him know Guy needed an audience and let the abbot call him in when he wished.

He turned back around and raced down the stairs, heading to the abbey's library. He'd write the abbot a formal request for an interview and then bring up the matter in a private setting. He was so preoccupied by his plan that Guy did not see the abbot turning the corner as he bounded down the stairs. They crashed into each other, and the impact sent Guy sprawling.

The abbot recovered quickly, then helped Guy back to his feet. "In a bit of a hurry, lad?"

"So sorry, my lord abbot. I should watch where I'm going."

The abbot dismissed the apology with a wave and a cluck of his tongue. "It's good that I ran into you—or you into me, rather."

Guy smiled, pleased that chance had so neatly moved the world around for him. "I had something I wanted to speak with you about as well."

"Walk with me to the cloisters, and we'll discuss your matter then."

They walked in silence for a few moments, Guy taking the opportunity to study the abbot at close range. There were a few more wrinkles around the eyes and a few more silver hairs than had been there when Guy had first arrived in Caën, but the abbot was, for the most part, unchanged. If worry niggled at him, if the burden of being responsible for so many others troubled him, it did not show on his face. Guy hoped he would be able to show the same impassivity one day.

"So what was it you wanted to speak to me about, Guy?"

"About Isabella, actually." He hesitated a little, before adding, "About her future."

"Ah, you've heard then? I was wondering if she'd have told you already."

"My lord?"

"Yes, I should be congratulating you, shouldn't I? Thanks to Isabella's marriage, you'll have a new brother soon."

Guy's resolve faltered. Did the abbot already know about Isabella and Lambert? Had things gone as far as marriage without his knowledge?

The abbot seemed to note his confusion and shook his head. "I see you have not heard the news then. Well, it's just as well, for I'm telling you. Isabella is to be married. To Thornton of Shrewsbury."

Guy stopped short, not caring that Martin had walked on without him. "What?"

"Did you not hear what I said?" Martin added with too much feigned innocence.

"When did all this happen? Who is…this Thornton of Surrey?"

"Shrewsbury. He's a wealthy landowner and a titled noble. A good match for your sister, wouldn't you say?"

Guy let the words sink in, feeling a knot of despair in the pit of his stomach that grew tighter with every breath. "Why didn't you tell me? You didn't even ask me!"

"I didn't realize I needed your permission, Guy."

He choked out the only words that came to him. "Did you even ask her? If this was what she wanted?"

Martin looked shocked. "Of course I asked her. I told you once before, I'm not cruel." He laughed mirthlessly. "At least not intentionally."

"And did she agree?"

Martin hesitated, but when he answered, his eyes were steady and his tone betrayed no doubt. "She is a clever girl, one who understands the world, and her duty in it. Of course she agreed. I would not have gone forward otherwise."

Guy sighed. "And what is to become of her now?"

"Nothing is to become of her. This is a happy circumstance, Guy, not a tragedy. She will be married at the Holy Trinity on Michaelmas, and when the lady abbess deems her ready, she will be sent to her husband in England."

"And in the meantime?"

Martin arched an eyebrow at him. "And in the meantime, Thornton will help his new brother with his chosen life. He will help defray the costs of your studies and—"

Guy did not let him finish. "She's my sister. She's my responsibility! And you just gave her to this man…you sold her!"

Martin wheeled around and grabbed Guy's shoulder. "I did no such thing. I am her guardian—and I might remind you, yours as well. Whatever else I may do, I always act in your best interest."

He let Guy go and shook his head, his expression changing from anger to sadness. "You and Isabella are the closest thing I will ever have to my own children. I would not wrong you – you must believe me.

"I only want you both to do well, and though it is not a perfect arrangement, a good marriage is the only way Isabella _can_ do well in this world."

Martin sighed. "There are sacrifices to be made in every life, Guy. To be a great man, you may have to sacrifice other, more ordinary dreams. This is Isabella's sacrifice. She does it for you. Don't belittle her choice."

Guy said nothing, surprised by this sudden display of sentiment from Martin. He felt a great wave of sadness overcome him, for the man who would marry his sister, for the man who should have married her, and even for Martin. But mostly, his grief was for Isabella, for the happy girl she'd once been, for the lonely orphan she was now, and for the grown woman she'd soon be forced to become.

\--

Night had fallen, and it was well past the hour when strange men were admitted to the Holy Trinity or to the abbey within, but Lambert knocked on the heavy church door, knowing that even a house of nuns could not turn away a supplicant, no matter how late the hour. That he was not an actual supplicant was, in his mind, unimportant.

After several minutes of frantic knocking, the door creaked, and a stern-looking woman opened the door. Lambert was reminded sharply of the day he had first arrived at St. Stephen's. The world had been a different place then, and now, he had to act to keep it from being turned on its head.

The nun clucked her tongue as she pulled him into the church. "Do you have no sense, lad? You'll catch your death in the rain like that!"

That was not the reaction Lambert had expected, and for just a moment, he was dumbstruck and goggled at the woman. She took the opportunity to scold him again. "Probably hungry, too. Off to the kitchens with you then!" She dragged him behind her by the elbow, and this time, he noted the hint of sympathy and concern in her voice, and he let himself be coaxed into the abbey without speaking his mind.

In the abbey's kitchen, warmed by the fire and a bowl of hot broth, Lambert recovered his initial determination. "I'm here to see someone," he said, to nobody in particular.

The kitchen maid sniggered. "That's what they usually say, when they come here. It's why they bring you here, instead of just letting you shout and wail outside. I'm sure someone will be along to set you straight soon."

Lambert considered a retort, then decided to save his energies. If the maid was right, it would be a task just to see Isabella, much less convince her to go along with his own plans. He set his mind to persuading her, his thoughts running far and wide, before he was called back to reality by the sound of a gentle cough.

"So, to what do we owe the honor?"

From her attire, and the way the kitchen maid curtsied low and then scurried away, he guessed this was the lady abbess herself. He bowed low and waited a moment before speaking, as politeness required.

"My lady abbess. I'm called Lambert. I'm here to see my…er, Isabella of Gisborne."

"Ah," she said, only a hint of mockery in her voice. "And would it not have been better to come during the day, when it is more seemly?"

He nodded, schooling himself to polite calmness. "Yes. But it was a matter of some urgency."

"Life and death, I'm sure." This time, her mocking tone was quite clear to Lambert, and not knowing how to react, he decided just to remain silent.

The abbess sighed. "Very well. My inclination is to refuse you, but I have a sense you will not go quietly, and I do not wish for a scene. I will have Isabella sent down, on one condition.

"When you are done speaking with her, you will leave this place in peace and not return to disturb us again."

Lambert hesitated, not liking that he was unwelcome or that the abbess had the power to keep him from seeing Isabella, but he understood that argument and hostility would not get him anywhere, so he courteously agreed.

The abbess nodded curtly in his direction and left him alone with his thoughts. Now that he was here, he was forced to consider what he would do if Isabella did agree with him. Lambert's plan had only been to convince her to leave the abbey and run away somewhere with him. He knew it was what she wanted, and it had taken only a bit of pressure from Guy's words for Lambert to realize it as well. But, unusually for him, he had not considered the other facets of the problem. Neither Lambert nor Isabella had any money, and it was not as if Guy did either. More than that, neither had any skills they could trade on, Isabella's brief encounter with weaving notwithstanding. It would be years before he would have either the money or the influence to help make a good life for them.

Maybe Anne, the horse trader's sister, could help them. At first, he dismissed the idea. Although Anne had some money and a roof over her head, she was not a woman of means, and there was her brother to contend with besides. Still, she was Guy's friend – perhaps more than a friend, he conceded – and it was possible she'd give, or at least lend, Guy a small sum of money. If Guy were to give that to his sister, they could start a new life in another town or village. Lambert knew it was impossible for him to stay at the abbey and pursue the path set out for him, and the same would be true for Guy, once the abbot discovered he'd thwarted Isabella's marriage.

He kept his eyes trained on the door while he tried to work out the problem, and his concentration was rewarded when it opened to admit Isabella. To his wonder, she looked neither worried nor particularly surprised. If she was troubled by recent events, she was certainly putting a bright face on it.

"Bella!" He reached out to take her hand, but she held herself stiffly and did not return the gesture in full measure. He frowned at her and raised an eyebrow, a silent question, but she did not reply in the same vein.

"It's good to see you."

She gave him a bright smile. "You've heard the news then. I'm to be married. You should see the dress the abbess has—"

Lambert grabbed her elbow and pulled her close, whispering in her ear. "Listen, you don't have to go through with it. I'll figure out some way to get you out of here. We can—"

She pulled out of his grasp. "Stop it! What do you think you're doing?"

"I thought that we were…" He struggled to find the right words in light of her reaction. Had he misunderstood everything? Had she? No, that wasn't possible. Was it?

"You've said, so many times that—"

Isabella's eyes slid away from his, but only for a moment. "What have I said? What have I _really_ said?"

"I…I don't know. I thought we were…close, I suppose."

"Oh, Lambert." She sighed, and in her eyes, he could see great pity. "For all your cleverness, you really are a fool, aren't you?"

"What?"

"I don't know what you thought, but you have it all wrong." She glared at him. "And it's one thing for others to think there was something between us, but you? You should know better!"

"Isabella, you are—"

"Think about it. Why would I want to be with you, Lambert? What can you give me? What can you give Guy?"

Lambert bristled and moved to defend himself, even if reason suggested he did not need to. "I'm clever in my way. I might become a great scholar one day. I could take care of you, and—"

"One day? How long am I to wait? Am I supposed to starve and live on the street?"

He gaped at her. In all the time he'd known her, he'd never once seen Isabella speak of money or position in this way, and this new knowledge left him floundering and searching for words. "But, Bella…you can't just…I mean, will you just marry this Thornton then? You don't know anything about him!"

"I know the important things about him. I know he's never been married before, so he will cherish me. I know he has land and title, so I will be a lady, as I was born to be.

"More than that, I know he has money and lands. He'll keep me the way I deserve to be kept.  
He'll help my brother—"

"Your brother? What does Guy have to do with all this?"

She laughed haughtily. "Nothing a woman does in this world is just for herself, Lambert.

"What can you do for me? For Guy?" She spat the words at him, and he could no longer see any pity in her expression. "What are you, in the end, but the poor son of a common tradesman?"

As she spoke, the tiny ember of angry disbelief in his heart began to grow, fanning itself into a roaring blaze. He bellowed at her. "Stop it. You're lying to me. You've never said these kinds of things before. I think you're under some sort of influence, and you've forgotten who you really are, or—"

"I am Isabella of Gisborne. I swore to restore the pride of my family and to help Guy do the same. I know my duty, and you should know yours." There was an edge to her voice, and her words cut through the air, as startling as the crack of a whip.

Lambert was appalled. He watched her in shock, but she said nothing more, her face settling into an impassive and calm expression. He could read nothing in her eyes, and the realization she was lost to him settled into the pit of his stomach.

He took a few deep breaths, and then regarding her calmly, he spoke. "So you've decided then. For both of us. Very well, so be it."

Lambert did not wait for her reaction, and as the wooden door shut behind him with a heavy thud, he sank to his knees and wept.

\--

 _A day later_

Guy left the abbey in the middle of the night. He could not sleep for all the thoughts and worries on his mind, most of them for Isabella and Lambert, and he'd considered that a walk would help clear his head. It was nearly dawn by the time he finished the first few passes of the church's close, but he'd had a sudden urge to keep walking, to be cleansed by the arrival of a new day, so he had ventured beyond the close and into town.

The day itself seemed to be mocking him. It was bright and cheerful, an exact contrast to his mood. He was exhausted now and wanted nothing more than to curl up into his mattress and sleep until it was dark again, so the sun could no longer scorn him. Yet he could not return to his rooms at the abbey without having to answer all sorts of questions, especially from Lambert. So he walked on past the town's houses and the castle, tired and aimless, until he found himself in the middle of town, on the doorstep of a tavern.

 _Perfect._ Guy was pleased to find a place where everything was dark and everyone was indifferent, and he sat down heavily on one of the wooden benches. Before he could think better of it, a tankard of ale had been set before him, and he drank, the dark bitter liquid a balm for his tired mind. He felt its warmth at the back of his throat and through his limbs. It made the aches in his heart and in his mind disappear, and before anyone could stop him, he downed the entire thing. He wiped his mouth roughly on his tunic and made a loud demand for another, then another, and another still. Being drunk and dissolute was perhaps no way for a monk to live, but it had its clear advantages.

After he'd been through several pints, however—he'd lost count after the fifth—Guy began to understand why drunks were so rarely successful. He could not quite feel his legs, and the ale sloshing around in his stomach was far too reminiscent of the boat trip from England. He tried to stand, pushing himself away from the bench, but he lost his footing and staggered back, bumping into one of the other patrons and upending his ale.

The man whose drink he'd upset was large and not nearly as drunk as Guy. Even in his dulled state, Guy understood that he'd be no match for this man in a fight. He put up his palms. "Listen, friend, I'm—"

The other man brought up his fist and seemed ready to propel it into Guy's face, when Guy felt a pair of arms pull him back and drag him outside. He was dropped on the ground and he tried to get up, just as a bucket of cold water splashed into his face. He gasped for air and scrubbed at his face to get the water out of his eyes.

"Feeling better now?" It was Anne.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him gently. "What are you doing anyhow? Drinking? Fighting?"

He shook his head, but found this did not help his current state. "I wasn't doing either of those things. I mean, I was drinking, but I wasn't fighting. It was all an accident."

Guy tried to put things in the right light. "I was upset, you know. Over everything that's happened. With Isabella getting married. And Lambert, I can't find him anywhere, and I was just so…" His voice trailed off, and he felt a rush of emotion, a desperate need to cry. The feeling horrified him, and he hung his head in shame and confusion.

She seemed to understand, and instead of scolding him again, she held out her hand. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" She pulled him by the hand. "C'mon. I can't drag you there. You'll have to do some of the work."

By the time they got to Anne's cottage, the fresh air had helped clear Guy's head a little. He could at least see straight and remember how he'd come to be in the tavern in the first place. Anne's reproach, however, was harder to swallow, and he tried not to look straight into her eyes as she watched him.

"I never paid for all the ale I had," he said morosely.

"I know, but don't worry – you can pay me later."

He smiled sheepishly. "I don't have any money."

She laughed and reached over to wipe his head with the rag she was holding. His drunken state and her nearness conspired to make Guy feel light-headed and more courageous than he'd ever been around her. On an impulse, he grabbed her face with both hands. "You are very kind to me. Everyone else, they've left me, abandoned me. My parents, Isabella, even Lambert. I don't even know where he's gone off to! But you, you're always here, aren't you?"

Anne gave him a strange look, but before she could react, he pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her soundly. She resisted at first, but after a moment or two, she kissed him back, her lips soft and pliant against his. It was the most extraordinary thing Guy had ever experienced, and he pulled her closer, pressing his hands into the small of her back. He began to relax, giving himself over to all these new sensations, but abruptly, the kiss stopped as Anne pulled away and shoved him off.

She held a hand to her mouth, staring at him in shock, but after a moment or two, she shook her head. "No, this is wrong. You're drunk." She walked over to the door and threw it open. "Get out."

"But, Anne…" Guy wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for anything—"

"I know. But for now, you just need to go."

\--

The trek back to the abbey was difficult, although it did help to sober him up somewhat. The crisp autumn air dispelled some of the fog in his mind, but it did nothing to relieve the heaviness in his heart. Isabella was gone, bartered away in a transaction he wanted no part of, and yet, had been almost entirely for his sake. He wished he had fought for her, disagreed with the abbot, even gone against him, but in the end, the abbot's words had made more sense than anything else. Marrying a man of wealth and substance was ultimately a good thing, and though Isabella was not happy, she would be, over time. More than that, she'd be well cared for, and not want for anything in the world. What more could a brother possibly want for his sister? He would go to her wedding and put her hand in Thornton's, and that would be the end.

In truth, he was far more worried about Lambert. Guy had not seen him since the day they'd rowed about John of Salisbury, and about Isabella. He'd thought his friend had just gone off somewhere, to be alone and think. Lambert was a wanderer, and he liked to walk in the woods behind the abbey, just thinking. He always came back though, granted with mud caked on his boots and brambles in his hair, but he always came back. This time, there had been no sign of Lambert for two nights, and Guy was genuinely worried.

By the time he gained the steps of the abbey church, Guy's head was clear, but he knew he must look a sight. He decided to forego the church and just return to his rooms, dunking his head in the watering trough outside the kitchens first. When he lifted up his head, water streaming off his hair, he found Brother Rupert watching him and looking severely displeased.

"Where have you been?"

Guy shrugged. "Away."

"We've been worried."

"Sorry."

The direct approach seemed to work on Rupert, and mollified, the man led Guy into the kitchens. He turned his nose up a little. "You've been at an alehouse, haven't you? It'll take more than a dip in the trough to set you straight." He motioned for Guy to sit as he pottered about the cupboards, looking for herbs, but Guy found the monk's cheer did not fit well with his own mood.

"Isn't anyone worried?"

Rupert gave him a blank look. "About what?"

Guy hissed in exasperation. "About Lambert! He's been gone for days."

"Ah." Rupert nodded. "Yes, about Lambert. I thought you'd want to know. He's…er, gone."

"Gone? How?" Guy felt a sudden stab of pain somewhere near his chest. "You don't mean…he's not dead, is he?"

"Oh goodness, no!" Rupert crossed himself hastily. "He left the abbey. Been about three days now."

"He…he left?" Guy quailed. How was it possible that Lambert could just leave this place, without so much as a word to him? It was a cruel thing to do, no matter what had driven him to it. Guy was his friend, and he'd deserved at least an explanation.

Guy despaired and covered his face with his hands. "How could he just be gone? I didn't even get to see him before—"

Rupert cleared his throat. "Er, he did leave me with this." He dropped a tattered square of parchment on the table in front of Guy. "To give to you. He said you'd understand."

Guy stopped listening to Rupert and fixed all his energies on the parchment. His hand shook as he unfolded it, this last word from Lambert, written in his usual cramped hand.

 _My dear Guy,_

 _You spurred me to make a decision, and so I have. It turns out I was right all along. When faced with a thing you cannot fight off, it's best to duck and run away. I do not know where Fate will take me, but I do not set much store by Fate anyway. I wish you well in all things, whether you choose to be a scholar of men or a soldier of God._

 _Ever your friend,  
Lambert_

  
So that was it then. Gone, they were all gone. His parents, his sister, and now even the one man who he'd called friend. He cried out and ripped the note to shreds, not caring that there were now others in the kitchen watching him. He tore out of the door and ran, running as far as he could, as long as he could, until his lungs burned from the exertion, and he collapsed on the meadow, welcoming the black oblivion that raced out to meet him.

\--


	10. The Royal Master

Chapter 10. The Royal Master

 _Michaelmas, 1177  
Church of the Holy Trinity, Caën_

The day of Isabella's wedding dawned cold and dreary as he arrived at the church. Guy had no desire to be there, and at first, he'd told the abbot in no uncertain terms that he would not attend, but at length, he'd relented, if only because the abbot had convinced him that he should be the one sending Isabella off to her new life, the beginning of her new adventures.

And yet, as he trudged into the stony silence of the church, Guy could not fend off the feeling this was more of an end than a beginning. Everything had changed, and not necessarily for the good. Guy blamed himself for much of what had happened, for being inattentive to his sister and her affection for Lambert, for being unable to stand up to Martin when he had the chance. His unhappiness in the face of it all seemed a proper punishment. _You reap as you sow._

Isabella, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by everything, her blue eyes reflecting only determination and fierce pride. She smiled at the appropriate times and otherwise comported herself exactly as expected, demure and obedient.

Despite his reservations, Guy had to admit she made a rather striking bride. She was wearing a dress made out of some expensive-looking material, and around her neck, she wore a jewel Guy had never seen before. He suspected they were presents from her soon-to-be-husband, and if he wished to lavish gifts on his wife, it was a good sign for their future. It was also none of his business, and Guy wisely kept silent on the subject.

The man she was marrying, this Thornton of Shrewsbury was not quite the monster Guy had made him into in his own mind. He had seen him earlier that morning, and he'd been surprised to discover Thornton was still a young man, tall and powerful, and the way he held himself projected determination more than anything else. Guy had stifled the urge to laugh then, at how well Isabella and Thornton were matched in that regard. There were other things about Thornton that made Guy nervous, however. He had a thin-lipped way of smiling that struck Guy as a mockery of laughter rather than a sign of amusement. He rode a handsome horse and wore rich fabrics, obviously enamored of his own money and station.

 _I can't hate him for that. Money is not a terrible thing, after all._ The abbot certainly seemed to think money, or at least the influence it brought, had its uses. Martin was his usual calm and efficient self today. If there was anything extraordinary about the marriage of his niece, he seemed unaffected by it. For all Guy knew, he was this way at every wedding, but Guy himself had never been to a wedding and did not know what to expect.

Isabella slipped her hand into his. "I didn't think you'd come."

Guy shrugged. "I didn't want to. Not after what you'd done."

She glared at him, and abruptly, she pulled her hand away. "What have I done?"

Guy said nothing, letting her flounder for a few minutes. He felt a sort of righteous anger towards her, and the feeling satisfied him as few things ever had.

Isabella sighed. "I'm surprised at you. I thought you'd understand."

"About what?"

"That I'm doing this for us?"

Guy gaped at her. "Us? This has nothing to do with me, Isabella. I didn't force you into this marriage."

"Didn't you?" She was indignant and crimson anger stained her cheeks as she spoke. "You wanted something from this world, the chance to be somebody. I'm giving you that. Don't pretend you didn't know."

"I didn't know, not until after Uncle told me. He said you'd agreed to the whole thing. He'd never force you, Isabella, I know that—"

She laughed. "Nobody forced me, that's true. But I did what I had to do."

"And what was that, sister? Lying to a good man? Breaking his heart? Lambert deserved better."

Her eyes slipped from his for just a moment, and Guy thought he sensed hesitation, maybe even regret, but when she turned back to him, her eyes blazed with cold fury. "Lambert? What can he do for me? He's nothing, and I didn't want to be nothing with him!"

Guy gaped at her. He had never once guessed that her goal in abandoning Lambert had been her own advancement. It suggested a ruthlessness and a hunger for power he'd never seen in her before. It appalled him, and he found himself stepping away from her in disgust.

She kept talking. Each new word was like salt rubbed into his considerable wounds, but he could not hear her through the din in his own head. _Poor Lambert!_ Is this what she had said to him? Is this what women did to men?

Abruptly, Guy shoved her away and spat back at her. "Stop it. I don't know who you are anymore. You're not my sister. I never want to see you again." He turned on his heel and left his sister, abandoning her to her choice. _You reap as you sow._

\--

 _Two days later_

Guy stuffed the last of his belongings into a sack and hoisted it on to his shoulder, preparing for a journey of undetermined length. He did not know where he was going, only that he had to leave the abbey. If nothing else, the events of the past few weeks had convinced him he was not intended for monastic life. All that was left now was to tell his uncle.

He walked calmly through the church and the cloisters to the abbot's quarters. As he climbed the stairs, he mused on the fact that this was the last time he would make this particular journey. It was the end of a part of his life, but he felt no grief, no sense of upheaval. Indeed, there was a sort of calmness, an absence of real feeling. He knew this peace would not last long, that there would be something that would rouse him to anger, or perhaps to laughter, but for now, he was cleansed of all his troubles, and Guy welcomed the feeling.

He knocked softly on the door to the abbot's chambers, mindful of the fact that he really should have asked permission to see him, but it was early enough in the day that Guy expected the abbot would not yet be occupied by other business. He knocked again, but when there was no answer, he tried the door and found it open, much to his surprise.

The abbot was kneeling on the stone floor, praying. His lips moved, but there was no sound, and Guy watched him in silence, awed by the man's piety and the extent of his faith. He recalled now Martin's heartfelt words about being saved by God, and briefly, Guy lamented not having the same experience. Still, seeing the abbot now, prone and helpless before a force much greater than himself, Guy knew he had made the right decision. It was not his fate to walk the path of God.

He waited patiently for the abbot to finish, and when Martin crossed himself and rose, Guy cleared his throat gently to get his attention.

Martin turned at the sound and spotting Guy, he raised an eyebrow. "Guy. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to speak with you, my lord. Before you became too busy to see me."

"Of course." Martin walked over to the large table that served as his desk, motioning Guy into the chair opposite. "You left the wedding."

"Yes." Guy hesitated. Then, deciding there was no harm in making his opinions known, he plunged straight ahead. "I thought it was all a mistake, and I did not want to be a party to it."

Martin looked annoyed for a minute, but slowly, he nodded his head. It was not a gesture of agreement, but one of acknowledgement. "Isabella did agree to the match. I assure you." The emphasis seemed to be mostly for the abbot's own benefit, and Guy demurred, out of respect, but also out of guilt for his own part in the affair.

Guy waited for Martin to say more, but his patience was met only with silence. "There is another thing, my lord. I've come to take my leave."

Martin frowned. "You're leaving already? You're not expected at Chartres for another fortnight, and there are still arrangements…" His voice trailed off as Guy's real meaning became clear. "You're leaving the order."

"Yes."

"I see. May I ask why?"

"I don't want to be a monk. I don't think I can do it."

Martin nodded, considering the matter. "Doubt, especially in oneself, is a common affliction among novices. You will feel this way, but there will be a day when you will wake and will see your path clearly. You cannot give in to this…uncertainty you feel."

“No, my lord." Guy stood, pulling himself up to his full height. "I have no doubt, not any more. The more time I spend here, the more distance I feel from God, from all that is good and noble and holy.”

When Martin tried to interrupt, Guy held up his hand, pleading for the chance to be allowed to finish. "I have tried, tried very hard, to be like you. To be as pious as you are. But it does not come easily to me, and every day, it becomes more difficult.

"I don't think God has saved me, at least not yet, and though I would not presume to question Him, I think this is His way of telling me I am meant for other things."

Martin nodded. "And what of your responsibilities? Your duty to serve the king and retrieve your family's honor?"

"I have not forgotten, but there are other ways to serve the king." He laughed gently. "It turns out I am not Thomas Becket, after all."

Martin gaped at him, but then joined in the laughter. "It is just as well. Becket's head was far too big, and it got him killed in the end. Better you keep yours on your shoulders a bit longer."

The laughter petered out, and they lapsed into silence. Guy considered simply bowing and leaving, but he did not want to leave things undone. He and Martin started talking at the same time, and Guy conceded, letting his uncle speak first.

"Where will you go?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. There are other towns in Normandy, after all."

"And money? What will you do for money?"

Guy shook his head. "I don't know." He fingered the medallion given to him so long ago, a lifetime ago, by the monk in England. "But a man, a monk like you, once told me that a door would always be open somewhere."

Martin regarded him through narrowed eyes for several moments, and Guy began to feel nervous at the scrutiny. At length, however, Martin rose up out of his chair and walked over to Guy, embracing him affectionately. "I have been happy to have you here. I wish you well. I wish you to find that open door." He took Guy's hand and pressed coins into it.

"My lord, I don't need money from you. I am grateful for all you've done for me. For Isabella. More is not necessary. I'm—"

"It's only a few pennies. It will keep you from starving the next few days. It is the least I can do for you." He gave him a bright smile and a clap on the shoulder. "God be with you, my son."

"And with you, my lord. Uncle." He knelt for the abbot's blessing, and when it was over, he bowed politely and waited for the gesture to be returned. After a few minutes, Martin bowed in return, and Guy stepped out of the room and into his new life.

\--

It was almost midday when he arrived at the horse trader's modest cottage. The door was open, but nobody was inside, and it took Guy a few more minutes to find the trader in the stables.

"Ah, Guy! Come here to finally buy a horse, eh?" The trader was a genial man, knowledgeable about horses and fond of the occasional bawdy joke. Guy was very fond of him, and he suspected the feeling was mutual.

"Not today, I'm afraid. Actually, I'm—" Guy flushed crimson, not sure why he was embarrassed. "I'm looking for Anne."

The trader shook his head. "She's outside, by the well." He gave Guy a sharp look, a warning that Guy recognized despite having little experience of it. "Horses need watering."

"Yes." Guy tried to be as polite as possible, but after a few more minutes, his patience ran out. "Can I talk to her for a bit?"

The trader shrugged. "Whatever you need to do."

She was not by the well, and after a few more minutes of fruitless searching, Guy sighed and decided to head to the tavern. There was a carter who traveled north once a week, and if he was lucky, Guy would be able to thumb a lift with him. He was not certain where he was going, but he had a sense his destiny lay north, and across the water, in England.

He doubled back on the street, and as he walked past the trader's cottage again, he saw Anne sitting at the table. Her golden hair was tied tightly away from her face and covered with an old scarf, but despite the severity of her appearance, Guy thought she was lovely. There was honesty in her, a sort of ordinary strength he'd seen in so few in his life, and he was drawn to that like a moth to a flame.

He bounded over to the house and rapped smartly on the door, hoping she'd be pleased to see him. She looked up, and instead of the bright and welcoming smile he'd been hoping for, she frowned and considered him carefully before waving him inside.

"Guy. What brings you here?"

The pretty words Guy had hoped to say disappeared on the tip of his tongue. "I…I just wanted," he floundered, still searching for the words. When none came, he fished around in his pocket and deposited a pair of coins on the table. "Thank you. For the ale." He pushed the coins gently towards her. "And for your kindness."

Anne looked him straight in the eye and then nodded curtly before scooping the money off the table. "Thank you. I would hate to have a monk in my debt forever."

"I'm not a monk. I never will be. I left the abbey."

If Anne was surprised by this news, she hid it extremely well. Her eyes dropped for a moment, but then she met his evenly. "And what happens now?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Not yet." He shuffled his feet, scuffing the rush-covered floor with his boots. "I could stay here."

Her mask of indifference slipped a little, and for just a moment, surprise showed clearly on her face. But she recovered quickly and gave him a smirk. "I don't think so. You don't know the first thing about being a horse trader."

"I could learn." He reddened, not sure of himself but determined to make his feelings known. "Especially if you were to teach me."

She gave him a frank look and then sighed, her shoulders slumping as she spoke. "Oh, Guy."

Guy panicked, not wanting to hear anything but words of agreement from her. "If it's about what happened the other night, I'm sorry about that. I’m not a drunk, and I promise you it will never happen again." _Not like that anyway._

"The thing is…I like you. A lot. I think that you like me as well, at least a little. I could stay here, be with you. I can help your brother with the trade. In time, I'm sure I could learn." He tried to keep desperation out of his voice, but it shook when he spoke all the same. "Don't you want me to stay?"

"No." She looked up at him, the expression on her face unreadable, especially to Guy. "Or rather, yes, I want you to stay. And you're right. I do like you.

"But this isn't the place for you, Guy. You're meant to do other things with your life, great things. I can see it in your eyes."

He shook his head. "I want to be here. I think I'm meant to be with you. We'd be happy—"

"No." This time, there was no hiding the vehemence in her tone. "You would like it for a time, but it would never be enough for you, and then you'd be stuck here, and you'd hate the trade. You'd hate the house. You'd even hate me." She smiled sadly at him. "And I don't want that. Not even a little bit."

She reached out and took his hand, bringing it to her lips. "I'm so sorry."

He wrenched it away, hurt by her rejection and even more by her kindness. "Are you certain? Because I still think—"

She shook her head. "I know you think you love me, Guy. And maybe you do. But this isn't the end for you. There'll be someone else someday. Someone who will deserve you. Someone who will make you better than you really are."

"I don't want that. I want to be here, with you."

"That's what children say, Guy, when they don't get a toy they want. You're a man. Be patient, be strong, and what you want will come to you. I promise."

Anne fell silent, and although Guy wanted desperately to disagree with her, he did not have the words for it. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, forcing it down, along with his feelings, into some deep recess of his heart. "Will I see you again?"

"Of course, God willing." She walked around the table and stood before him, honest and sincere, as always. "I'll miss you." She flattened her hand against his chest, stood on her toes and kissed him gently. "Now go."

"Anne." He bent his head to kiss her again, but this time, she pushed him away and punctuated her refusal with a tiny shake of the head. He brushed her forehead with his lips, and with the lingering scent of her hair still on his mind, he walked out of her cottage for the very last time.

\--

Guy made his way back to the tavern, feet moving slowly across the dirt paths of the town. He was not certain where he was headed, how he was going to get there or what he would do, but his legs seemed to have a mind of their own, and he had already walked halfway there, when he realized he was nearing the castle on the hill.

He stopped in his tracks and stared up at the stone building in awe. He had never been inside any castle, much less this one, which had stood guard over the town since the days of the Conqueror himself. Guy considered going in and satisfying his curiosity, but the sight of armed guards at the gate gave him pause. They would want to know his business, and as he had none, it was not likely to end well.

Resigned, he began to walk away from the castle, when an unexpected sight caught his eye. It was the bay roan, tethered to a post outside the gate. Curious, Guy walked over to the horse and ran a gentle hand over its head. The horse butted his hand and nickered, obviously hoping he'd brought something to eat. Guy laughed. "Not today, my old friend." He patted the horse's neck. "And you look like you're being fed quite well, really."

The horse skittered unexpectedly, and Guy turned to find himself face-to-face with a knight. More to the point, the knight had unsheathed his sword, and the point was inches from Guy's neck.

"I would thank you not to help yourself to my horse." The knight's manner was polished, his words polite. Yet the way he said them, with barely concealed disdain and a hint of mockery, set Guy on edge.

He stepped away from the horse and tried to defend himself. "I wasn't doing anything. I just wanted to take a closer look. I know the horse." Guy cursed himself silently. "Er, I mean, I had seen it before. At the trader's."

"Ah." The knight reflected on Guy's words for a moment, hand still holding the sword steadily. At length, however, he relented and shoved the sword back into its scabbard. "What's your name, lad?"

"Guy, good sir. Guy of Gisborne?"

The knight raised an eyebrow at him. "Of Gisborne, eh? You're a noble?"

Guy nodded. "By birth, yes. But not so much by circumstance."

The other man gave a derisive snort. "Yes. Like all the other nobles in the world." He regarded Guy for a moment. "You look hungry."

Guy frowned. "Yes, well, it has been a while since I last ate."

The knight laughed. "That's not what I meant. But come, let's feed your hunger, shall we?"

The man led Guy into a tavern near the castle wall. The place reeked, a mixture of ale, food and sweat, and Guy had the sudden urge to run outside and heave, but he shook it off and put on a brave face. The knight seemed unfazed by it, and he laughed at the look on Guy's face.

"It's the smell of fear, boy. You'll learn to love it one day."

Guy demurred, certain the knight was wrong but unwilling to say so and appear impolite. He smiled weakly at him. They sat down at a low table, and two tankards of ale appeared almost out of nowhere. Guy lifted his in salute to the knight and drank, slowly this time, careful to savor the taste of the brew and not just the calm it brought with each swallow.

The knight pointed to Guy's pack. "Off on a trip somewhere?"

Guy shrugged. "Sort of. I'm leaving this place."

"But you don't know where you're headed?"

Guy shook his head but kept his silence, not wanting to elaborate.

"A noble without a place to go is a rare thing. Some would say a dangerous thing."

Guy laughed. "I'm not dangerous. I'm not even armed."

"Even so." The knight regarded Guy carefully. "What makes a knight what he is?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What do you think makes a man a knight? Aside from a sword and a horse, that is."

Guy frowned. It was not a question to which he'd given much thought. As a child, he'd been told it was simply what noble boys grew up to be. "I don't know. Power, I suppose."

"And where does power come from?"

"From money, title, that sort of thing."

"Hmm." The knight fell silent after that, and he and Guy finished their tankards of ale, only to have two more appear before them. This time, Guy only pretended to drink, sensing he'd need his wits about him. The knight was clever, and Guy had a feeling he would put a sword through him without a second thought, if the mood struck.

He was about to ask the knight where he was from when a commotion broke out. Men yelled at the top of their voices, and money changed hands, as two burly punters began to arm-wrestle. Guy turned away, uninterested. Wagers on fights—between men, dogs, even chickens—happened all the time, and Guy did not find this one out of the ordinary in any way.

The knight pulled at his sleeve to get his attention. "So if you were making a wager, which man would you take?"

Guy considered the two contestants. One man was clearly larger than the other, and in a contest of brawn, size mattered more than most other things. "The big man, with the ginger hair."

The knight gave him a cryptic smile. "Hmm, yes. I thought you would." He turned away to watch the wrestlers more closely, and Guy did the same, his eyes following the action keenly. The two men were evenly matched at first, but after a few minutes, and perhaps sensing a chink in his opponent's armor, the smaller man laughed and slapped the large man's arm onto the table with a thud. All around him, men hollered and hissed, depending on whether they'd made a fortune or lost one, and Guy shook his head, not really understanding.

The knight turned back to him. "It's a good thing you didn't make a wager."

Guy chuckled. "But I might have won. It's a game of chance."

The knight turned on him, all his previous mirth gone. "Nothing is by chance, not even games.

"If you'd ask me to put down a wager, I would have put it on the smaller man. Do you know why?"

"No."

"Ah." The knight pointed to his own eyes. "Because I watch. I saw the ginger man fall down outside, and when he got up, he was favoring his right shoulder. There was no way he could have won this little contest, at least not today."

Guy followed the direction of the knight's eyes, and now that he knew what to look for, he could see that the larger man was having problems with his right arm.

"That's…impressive."

"It's not, really. It's just common sense." He gave Guy a frank look. "A man with the right knowledge never loses a bet. Or a battle.

"Power doesn't come from wealth or land or even birth. It comes from information." He slapped money for his portion of the ale on the counter. "The lesson is free. The ale is not. You'll pay for your own, won't you?"

Guy watched in confusion, as the other man left the tavern, but a thought came to him suddenly. He paid for his ale in haste and ran out the door, chasing down the knight.

He panted as he spoke. "I can ride. And I'm good with a sword."

The knight knit his brows together, nonplussed. "So?"

"You're a knight, but you care for your horse yourself. That means you have no squire. I'm offering you my services." Guy gave him a bright smile. "I watch too."

The knight looked impressed. "So you do." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Come see me tomorrow at the castle. Ask for Vaysey. But don't be late, for I intend to leave before midday."

Guy nodded, pleased with himself and for the opportunity. "Where do you go?"

"To offer my services to the king, our royal master."

"To England?"

Vaysey nodded. "Tomorrow then, Guy."

"Tomorrow, sire."

\--FIN--


End file.
